


Buy the Stars

by Jwink85



Series: Garden of Stars [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Abuse, Bipolar Disorder, Domestic Violence, Flashbacks, Introspection, Love, M/M, Melancholy, POV First Person, Redemption, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-15 02:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18065258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jwink85/pseuds/Jwink85
Summary: Tweek and Kyle reconnect after Craig's death. Tweek recounts his time with Craig, recalling the moments that led up to his eventual escape, both good and bad.This story is an offshoot of 'Peering Through Windows,' btw.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been kicking this idea around for a while and I'm just now getting around to getting serious about it. Peering Through Windows was an experience that I found immensely satisfying, but I kept wondering about Tweek's story. He's quickly becoming one of my favorite characters so I wanted to give him a voice. :)
> 
> ENJOY! <3

**You bought a star in the sky tonight**  
**Because your life is dark and it needs some light**  
**You named it after me, but I’m not yours to keep**  
**Because you’ll never see, that the stars are free**  
  
**-Buy the Stars, Marina and the Diamonds  
**

* * *

I buried someone today.

Someone I used to love. Someone I still love, I suppose, even though I hate them so much.

It's funny but not at all surprising that a funeral, a sudden death, can bring about so many emotions. When I first heard the news I couldn't believe it because it was more than I ever could've hoped for, and then I felt ashamed because I was so happy. You aren't supposed to rejoice in the deaths of others, as a general rule, but then I was able to really pinpoint my sudden emotion. It wasn't happiness so much as it was relief, a sweet, all-consuming relief.

I think I'm getting ahead of myself, though, so allow me to piece things together so they'll make sense. This will be difficult, of course; none of this story ever made much sense. Mainly because Craig Tucker doesn't make a lot of sense.

There I go thinking about him in the present tense, how foolish of me. He's gone, isn't he? He's dead and already six feet under. Where he belongs.

Does that make me sound callous and cruel? I suppose it does, doesn't it? I've come to find that mistreatment can leave different impressions on different people. For some, violence makes them softer, less willing to resort to it themselves, but others, such as myself, are hardened by it. Don't misunderstand me, of course. I don't want to go around doing the same things Craig did, but I'm not going to pretend he didn't deserve to die for the devastation he brought to the lives of others.

When I saw Kyle at the funeral today, I looked into his eyes and they were like looking into my own. They were haunted, they were guarded, but they were so vulnerable. There were ghosts of bruises on his face, and I could see the careful way he carried himself. I could also tell that he'd been groomed, rewired, to make as little fuss as possible. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, and neither did I. That's why I was standing away from the crowd of mourners, in the shadows of the trees. I had forced myself out of hiding in order to see with my own eyes that the past was well and truly being buried.

But the past isn't so easily laid to rest, is it? Craig's body may be in the earth but his atrocities remain, because Kyle and I remain to remember them. He was afraid to approach me, though I really couldn't say why. It's not like I've ever been imposing. That's probably why Craig started with me instead of someone else, now that I think of it. We were childhood sweethearts so I had the pleasure (and misfortune) of experiencing almost all of my firsts with him. He was a different boy when we were children. That's something I'll swear to, even in front of Kyle.

We went out for drinks after the funeral, he and Kenny and I, and at first conversation was difficult. You know those situations where you have too much to talk about, so you're not even sure where to begin? That's how it went.

Kyle sat across from me, drinking glass after glass of wine until his pale cheeks were flushed. He'd always been pretty, but tragedy had only served to make him prettier. He'd been blessed with youthful looks, always, and as I watched him become tipsy he looked like a boy stealing his parent's alcohol. Kenny sat beside him, very close, and held his arm in an indulgent way, his other hand wrapped around a beer bottle. On occasion, he would run a hand through Kyle's curls, which were still vivid even after so many years. The lighting in the bar was dim but it didn't downplay their scarlet brilliance; faint copper highlights burning through the tangle.

I nursed the same whiskey neat for the majority of our conversation, still trying to wade through my thoughts. So many significant things had happened in such a short amount of time, and I was reeling. I could tell that Kyle was still trying to find his way as well, and I wanted to tell him that years would pass before he'd likely even find his footing. Instead, I took another sip of whiskey, holding it in my mouth until it seemed to burn my tongue...or was that the result of the words I couldn't speak?

"Where are you staying while you're in town?" Kyle asked, swirling the wine in his glass. He seemed to favor reds, having indulged in three glasses of a Cabernet that came highly recommended by the server.

"With my parents," I replied, setting my own drink aside. I'd been a big drinker when I was with Craig, but I had cut back significantly once I ran away from him. Suddenly, the alcohol only seemed to bring about bad memories instead of covering them up. "I haven't seen them in so long."

"That makes sense," Kenny said, pulling at his collar. He'd discarded his tie and suit jacket as soon as we'd left the cemetery; the top buttons of his shirt undone. "Tweak Brothers is still doing really well from what I hear."

"Yep, they've opened up locations in Utah and Nevada," I replied, not keeping the pride out of my voice. "They're hoping to make it to California one of these days."

"He kept me from my parents, too," Kyle said, abruptly. "My father had a stroke and it was like moving heaven and hell to go and see him in the hospital."

I paused, not sure how to respond to that, other than feeling horribly sad, of course. I glanced at Kenny, who shrugged and seemed to wince as he reached out to slide Kyle's wineglass away from him.

"Maybe you've had enough, baby," he said, speaking to Kyle in a hushed, protective way. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up out of nowhere. Craig had had a habit of talking to me in much the same fashion, but that was before things really went South.

"Kenny, we've talked about this," Kyle said, pulling the glass toward him. "I need to make my own decisions, and besides, I'm just cracking the ice here. Isn't this what we're here to talk about? Craig?" He snapped his eyes to me, catching me off guard.

"Right? Isn't that all you can think about? Especially today?"

"Yes, of course," I said, unable to meet his eyes for very long. They were just full of too many awful things. They were a mirror and I didn't feel like looking at myself while talking about Craig. "Why do you think I disappeared for so long?"

"You did a better job of hiding than I did," Kyle said, and his voice was so bitter it was hard to listen to. "He always knew how to find me. He said he thought about finding you too, but -"

"He had you," I cut him off, knocking back my drink now and calling to the server for another. Suddenly, a buzz seemed like the best idea in the world. He came over with another tumbler, catching my eye.

"Hey, don't I know you guys?" He asked, studying me until I could feel a blush gathering in my cheeks. It'd been so long since I'd even entertained the idea of being with another person. To be appraised so openly was profoundly disconcerting, even though the idea of being wanted certainly appealed to me.

"Pete, is that you?" Kenny asked, squinting his eyes at the server, taking in his black hair and pale skin. He was dressed in the restaurant's standard uniform: black dress shirt and slacks, a long apron around his waist. He was slim and appeared ghostly, the lighting washing him out. He had a small lip piercing and an earring, and I wondered idly how he got away with having a facial piercing while working in a restaurant.

"Yep," he smiled, flitting his focus back to me. "Tweek, right?"

I nodded, looking down at the table. I shakily brought my drink to my mouth, really only wetting my lips with it; too nervous to do much else. Craig had filled up my life for so long, even after I ran, and now I had no idea how to conduct myself under any sort of scrutiny that might lead to something else. I felt stupid, too, of course. Just because a man looks at you doesn't mean they want you, but there was an intensity in Pete's eyes that gave me pause.

"Can I get you guys anything else?" He asked.

"More wine, please," Kyle slurred. I looked up, seeing that his glass was raised in the air. Kenny just glanced between it and Pete, who suddenly looked concerned, as well.

"Are you sure, man? I mean -"

"I'm celebrating," Kyle said, smiling slowly. "I buried Satan today. Wouldn't you say that calls for alcohol?"

Now I didn't look away when Pete caught my eye again, but now I was starting to feel amused in a perverse way. It would seem that Craig hadn't leeched Kyle of all of his fire, his occasional casual cruelty.

"More wine, please," I spoke up, able to smile thinly. Pete just nodded before turning away, heading back toward the bar.

"I'm sorry," Kyle said, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes suddenly. "I shouldn't have said that. It was so insensitive. Wasn't it? I sound cruel, depraved -"

"I'm the one that should be apologizing," I interjected, my admission clearly taking Kyle and Kenny by surprise. I shrugged, knowing what I was saying was the truth, even if they couldn't see it yet. "I escaped Craig but I didn't warn anyone about who he'd become. I should've said something."

"How were you supposed to know what would happen?" Kenny asked, leaning into Kyle, who rested his head on Kenny's shoulder. "You had no idea that Craig was going to marry Kyle, no idea at all. You had to protect yourself."

"It sounds so selfish, hearing it out loud," I murmured, toying with my glass. "But I have to assume some of the blame here, regardless of what you say."

"Where did you go?" Kyle asked, gratefully taking the wineglass when Pete returned. It sloshed when he brought it to his lips, and he dragged his tongue down its side; pink and small. "After you left Craig? He said you disappeared from the hospital."

"That's a long story," I said, very aware of the way Pete continued to hover. Looking up, he smiled at me.

"Did you need anything else?"

"Not at the moment, thanks." I held up my drink, displaying that it was still half-full. He seemed disappointed before turning away. I glanced back at Kyle, who was watching with obvious, drunken interest.

"I think someone is smitten with you," he said.

"I don't have time for a $1.98 romance. I want something real," I replied, though I couldn't help feeling flattered. So it wasn't all in my head. Looking between the two of them, Kyle and Kenny, the way they clung to one another, I was met with a powerful sadness. "I'm so glad you found each other."

"I wouldn't be here without him," Kyle said, softly. He brought Kenny's hand to his mouth and kissed it, closing his eyes for a moment. It was such a small gesture but I found it overwhelmingly romantic, but it also made me even more melancholy. Craig had often done the same thing to me, kissing my hands, my knuckles...resting his hand against my face so I could lean into it. There had been nice things between us at one point.

"Hold onto each other, okay? I'm starting to see that love is the only thing that matters at the end of the day. It's the only thing that seems to last." I blushed, embarrassed at preaching to them, my words sounding terribly cliche and insufficient for the moment.

Kyle nodded as he continued to kiss Kenny's hand until he began to weep softly, the day and the wine seeming to converge on him at once. Kenny gathered him into his arms and looked at me with open apology.

"I'm sorry," he said, pressing a kiss against Kyle's temple. "It's been a long day. Hell, it's been a long couple of weeks."

"I keep seeing his face in my dreams," Kyle sobbed. "Every time I close my eyes, he's there. I can see him begging me for help and I didn't do anything to save him."

"Kyle, he didn't deserve to be saved," I said, and I was surprised that the words stuck in my throat for a moment. Bitter truths usually do. "You know that."

"I just wish he could've stopped on his own." Pulling back from Kenny, Kyle pushed the wineglass away, hiding his face in his hands. Pretty soon, his shoulders began to tremble as he continued to cry.

"I think it's time to say goodnight," Kenny announced, grimly. "He needs to sleep."

"I wish I could sleep until we leave," Kyle said, drawing his hands away, revealing red eyes and even pinker cheeks. My heart hurt seeing him this way. I'd always remembered him as being so strong in school, and I'm sure he still is, when the raw edge of this situation fades away.

"You're taking a trip?" I asked, standing as Kenny helped Kyle from his seat.

"I took a job down in South America," Kenny said, steadying Kyle when he swayed. "We're getting away for a while."

"Les Eclaireurs," Kyle said, and suddenly he was smiling again, though he still cried. Frazzled, he looked around. "Kenny, what about the check?"

"I'll get it," I said, waving them away. "No worries, okay?"

"I want to see you again, before we leave," Kyle said, coming forward and wrapping his arms around me. Surprised, I could feel myself stiffening up until his scent, apples and cold wind, surrounded me. Softening, I put my arms around him as well, holding him close. He felt slight, and I could've cried at the idea of Craig hurting him for so long. He must have been so afraid and I'm sure he felt alone. I knew that feeling well. I still do.

"Of course," I replied, rubbing his back. "I'm not going anywhere for a couple weeks. I finally have a chance to see everyone without worrying."

"I'll call you," Kyle said, pulling away and studying me for a moment. Up close, I could see a faint wound in the corner of his mouth. I glanced away quickly, not wanting to focus on it for long.

"I'd like that."

"Are you leaving too?" Kenny asked, holding up Kyle's coat so he could help him into it.

"Nah," I replied, sitting back down and gesturing to my drink. "I think I'll finish this and then I'll call it a night. I don't want to go home yet."

"Be careful going home, man," Kenny said, holding out his hand so we could shake. It was large and callused; strong. I could imagine those hands on Kyle, holding him tightly, and it brought me an odd sense of calm.

I watched them leave until their backs had disappeared through the front doors, and then I was alone, drinking whiskey that burned down my throat. When Pete brought the check, I had my card ready but he lingered, watching me.

"He seemed pretty upset," he commented, tapping his fingers on the table.

"He is," I said, watching those long fingers, elegant and pale. They reminded me of Craig's, and even after all of the years and trials I could remember them as being beautiful. "We really did bury someone today."

"I'm sorry," he said, and I felt bad for putting him in this position. People feel compelled to apologize when a person is mourning, even if the deceased was nothing but a name to them; an idea.

"Don't be," I replied, finishing my drink and handing the glass to him. "He's exactly where he belongs, I think."

\-----

"Who was he?" Pete asked, gesturing to the grave. It was lit up with moonlight, winds fluttering across the multitude of flowers laid on the freshly-turned earth. Overhead, the stars were out in ferocious droves, hanging low and pulsing in the cold. I'd noticed that winters in the mountains made the stars seem to drop, practically close enough to yank from the sky and keep in a jar on a shelf.

I stared at the grave, seeing it up-close for the first time. There had been too many people around during the funeral for me to come closer, and I had no interest in weeping with them over the monster laid to rest. It was elegant and tasteful, much like Craig had been when he was alive. The epitaph was brief, just like his tenure on earth had been:

_Here lies a healer of hearts._

I couldn't help but snort at these words because they were clearly chosen by his parents. They'd always been so proud of their golden doctor son, who'd managed to elevate the Tucker name to a certain status within the community. They'd conveniently ignored his darker traits as we grew up, but I suppose I can't blame them. Parents want to see the best in their children, don't they?

"You remember Craig Tucker, don't you? He went to school with us," I said, knocking back some of the whiskey from the bottle Pete had supplied. He'd been kind enough to give me a ride to the cemetery as well, though I hoped he didn't think something was going to happen between us. It was enough that I was willing to spend time alone with him. Normally, I would've turned down his offer to hang out after he closed up the bar, but I was feeling bold. After all, I'd just recaptured my personal freedom, hadn't I?

"Hey, yeah," he said, brushing some hair from his eyes. I was just glad that he'd decided to forgo his old style, his bangs blessedly short comparatively. "I heard something about his death. There was an article -"

"What you think you know is probably wrong," I interrupted. "Everything about this guy was a lie."

"What do you mean?"

I shook my head, the whiskey sloshing in my brain and stomach respectively. I was feeling slow and warm and sleepy. Needy, too, but in a way that I hadn't experienced in quite some time. Impetuously, I reached out and took a hold of Pete's hand, squeezing it.

"I'm tired of being negative," I said, relishing in his look of surprise. "Here, join me."

Pulling him down, I lay in the soft grass, setting the whiskey bottle aside. Seeming reluctant, he was slow to lie back as well, but he finally did, our hands still linked. I drifted a hand upward, almost like I was introducing him to the sky and the stars for the very first time.

"I used to spend the night at his house," I said, tracing a finger in the air and connecting the glittering points with an invisible line. "Almost every week, and he had those glow in the dark stars on his ceiling over his bed. I can remember them even now, you know? They were green and they always faded really quickly."

"I think every kid had glow in the dark stars at some point," Pete replied, turning his head so his cheek was resting against the grass. "I know I did."

"I didn't," I replied, remembering Craig's childhood bedroom; Stripe's cage sitting on the desk, his full bed where so many firsts occurred. "I didn't need them on my own ceiling because I knew they were on Craig's."

I lapsed into silence, holding back tears that had been in reserve for the entire day. I hadn't cried at the funeral and I hadn't cried even when Kyle started to, but this moment, these memories, were enough to create a crack in my resolve. I'd noticed that the happy memories were more likely to make me cry than the sad ones. It's funny how the human heart works, seemingly without regards to logic.

"Whenever I think of my first time with him," I continued, just drunk enough to talk about the loss of my virginity with a near-stranger, "I remember those stars on his ceiling, and some of the bad things that happened just kind of fade away too. Does that make any sense?"

Suddenly, Pete pulled my hand so it was resting on his chest, warm and faint heartbeats pushing up through his shirt. He was still watching me instead of the stars.

"Not really, but it's a nice idea. I like it."

"Thanks," I laughed, brushing away a tear that had finally begun to fall. "That means a lot."

Kyle didn't reach out to me until almost two days later, and his text came very late at night. Or very early, really. Dawn was already on the horizon as I drove out to the cemetery again, the sky purplish and reluctant stars being laid to rest. Very soon the sun would rise and slaughter them one by one, and I couldn't help but smile tenderly when thoughts of lying in the grass with Pete filled my head. He'd been sweet and patient as I finally cried next to Craig's grave, and when he'd taken me home that night he'd been content with a kiss on the cheek and a tentative promise to call him soon.

The sun was cresting the mountains when I came upon Kyle, who was kneeling next to Craig's grave. A cluster of red roses were sitting on the earth that hadn't been there before. As I approached, he stood and stepped back, noticing that I was staring at them.

"They were his favorite," he explained, worrying his hands. "He wanted a rose on the table every morning."

"I know so little about your life with him," I commented, admiring the velvety petals fluttering as a chilled wind passed through. "I don't feel like I can ever understand what happened between you."

"I was thinking that myself," Kyle said, reaching a hand into his pocket. "About you and Craig, I mean. He refused to talk about you for the most part, so the whole thing is like a mystery to me."

"We had nice moments," I said, hating how pathetic this made me sound, like I was trying to excuse something that was completely unforgivable. "I know it's hard to believe, but there were things worth loving about him at one point."

"I know, Tweek," Kyle said, coming closer. "I know that better than anyone, I promise."

Drawing his hand out of his pocket, he produced a book with a glossy black cover. He held it for a moment, his eyes resting on my face as he seemed to consider something.

"Would you like to know our story? I'd like to know yours...I think it would help me to understand myself better." He shook his head, smiling now, but it was bitter. "Lord knows I need help trying to forgive myself."

I was going to reiterate the fact that he had nothing to apologize for, that seeking your own salvation was not something to berate yourself for, but I stayed silent. I had a feeling Kenny had been working overtime trying to convince Kyle of the same thing, and no amount of words were going to dissuade him from what he'd already decided. He was going to have to come to terms with his actions in his own time, and so was I. I still carried so much guilt over unleashing Craig on the world without warning it about what he was. It was enough to keep me up most nights, especially after I'd heard about his marriage to Kyle. It was in that moment that I decided reading his story was the least that I could do for him.

"May I?" I asked, gesturing to the book. After a moment, he nodded and handed it over. Flipping through the pages, I glanced up at him, his hair burning brighter in the coming sun. I could see that it was a diary, and nearly all of its pages were covered over with what had to be Kyle's neat penmanship.

"Meet Rose," he said, grinning now, and it was wonderfully bashful and so young; the expression on his face.

"I can read her?"

"Only if you want to," he said, an anxious note registering in his tone. "I don't want to add my pain to yours. That wouldn't be fair."

"No, no," I said, running a hand over Rose's cover. "I feel like this is a story I need to know, so I can try to put my own in perspective."

He glanced at Craig's grave, the red roses illuminated by the sun and glowing just like he was, almost like a weight had been taken from his shoulders.

"I wish we had met again under better circumstances," he said, tucking a curl behind his ear.

"Me, too, but at least the worst is behind us, right? And we can lean on each other?" I glanced down at the diary's cover, a sudden thought coming to me. "Won't you need this while you're away?"

He shook his head, looking at Rose fondly.

"I have a new journal," he said, softly. "That diary represents my past, and I think it's time to leave it where it belongs."

"I'll take good care of her until you return, I promise," I smiled, tucking Rose into my pocket. "And when we see each other again, maybe I'll be ready to tell you my story, too."

"I'd love that," he said, hooking his arm through mine as we turned away from Craig's grave, the rising sun flush and warm against our backs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings.
> 
> It took me forever and a day to decide on a direction for this fic, especially w/ regards to flashbacks (of which there will be several, though there aren't any in this chapter) but i feel reasonably confident about how it's going to play out. (For now, anyway. That's subject to change, naturally. xD) I kept holding back on writing bc I didn't want to fuck it up, but then i finally decided to just go for it, so if this sucks, I apologize. I TRIED.
> 
> Anyway, ENJOY! <3
> 
> PS: Thanks for the comments on the first chapter - they meant a lot. I was afraid ppl would be like 'NOBODY ASKED FOR THIS STORY SO WHY ARE YOU WRITING IT?' xD

**You're hard to hug, tough to talk to**  
**And I never fall asleep, when you're in my bed**  
**All you give me is a heartbeat**  
**I've turned into a statue**  
**And it makes me feel depressed**  
**'Cause the only time you open up is when we get undressed**

   **\- Starring Role, Marina and the Diamonds**

 

* * *

I think I'm starting to understand why Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home again.

Does that make any sense? No? Yes? Maybe I should explain myself, huh?

Craig's funeral was over a week ago and I still don't feel really settled here. I feel like a stranger in my own hometown, and I really can't say why that is, though I can certainly speculate. I mean, I'm staying with my folks and they've been wonderful, but I can't allow myself to feel comfortable. There are just too many ghosts and memories haunting South Park for me to feel at ease, and it makes me angry and sad that Craig's influence reaches so far...even beyond the grave, it would seem.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again, aren't I? I have a habit of doing that, so let me apologize in advance - it'll happen again. Craig used to hate the way I fretted and worried over every little detail, even when we were kids, but I couldn't help it. I've always been anxious, and it just got worse after my time with Craig; not that he ever saw it like that. Over the years, I came to learn that Craig saw the world in a very specific way, and his interpretation of events was always the truth, while everything else was a lie. But, once again, I'm getting ahead of myself. See? I told you it would happen again, didn't I?

I'm starting to see that I'm going to have to take things one day at a time if I'm going to survive the aftermath of Craig's death. Really, dealing with Craig's departure is going to be very similar to how I dealt with him in life: carefully, and with extreme caution. Right now I feel overwhelmed and directionless, like I constantly have to remind myself to breathe, but I'll find my way before too long. It's not like I have a choice, right?

It's early morning right now, and I'm in my parent's coffee shop helping out at the counter while they do inventory. Just being here is enough to invoke a weird sort of melancholy in me, and I can vividly remember helping out when I was in high school; can practically see Craig leaning against the counter like he used to, waiting for my shift to finish so we could go hang out. I can remember summers that we both worked here, making drinks and flirting in between customers...I remember the good times, and I can recall the small details of his personality that filled me with concern but I chose to overlook.

I guess that's part of the reason I can't relax into the fabric of South Park at this point. There's just this constant reminder hanging about the place that makes me stop and reflect on all of my prior mistakes, and it forces me to consider how things could've been if Craig had been a different person...if I had been a different person, too. I've been numb and avoidant for so long; being here, where everything started, is forcing me to wake up and come back to reality. Every day is like being slowly lowered into a hot bath and I'm starting to thaw, and I hate it so far.

It doesn't help that Kyle's diary is practically burning a hole in my pocket. I haven't been able to do more than skim a few pages, but I feel weird leaving it lying around, so I carry it with me wherever I go. I almost feel like I'm carrying his broken heart around with me, and I don't like having that sort of power. I've never wanted to look into another person's painful reality, just like I've never really wanted anyone to look into mine; especially when it comes to my time with Craig. I can understand why he wants me to read about his past, but I can't understand it at the same time. I'm sorry, I'm not making sense again, am I?

I was readying to pull the diary from my pocket when I heard the bells tinkling over the entrance to the store, signaling a customer. Quickly, I looked up to see Pete coming through the door, and I nearly wanted to dive behind the counter. I'd been avoiding his calls and texts since the night I cried in the cemetery, and I'm sure it hurt his feelings. I also knew that he'd been coming into the store nearly every morning since, but my mom told me that he was a regular so it wasn't an unusual occurrence. Still, I couldn't help but feel like he was trying to catch me so he could demand an explanation for my aloofness.

"Good morning," he smiled, appearing rather sleepy but otherwise well. In the morning sunlight, he looked even more pale than usual, and I could see faint purple shadows under his eyes. The bone structure of his face was angular, with high cheekbones and thin lips, and my eyes lingered on his lip ring for a moment. I found it inexplicably sexy, even though this was incredibly contrary to my usual tastes. Craig had been proper when it came to his appearance, especially after he went to medical school; he never would've considered a facial piercing of any sort. I could suddenly recall the way it had scraped against my cheek when Pete kissed me several nights before. I flushed.

"Morning," I said, dropping my focus to the counter; not wanting to see excitement or accusation in Pete's eyes. I wasn't prepared to deal with either. "Dark roast, right?"

"Right," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. Clearly, he wasn't in the mood to make waves. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Extra large, please."

"Should I leave room for cream?" I asked, although I already knew the answer. Pete liked his coffee black as the night itself, but I was suddenly hungry to talk. Maybe it was because he was being so understanding about my seeming rejection of him, I couldn't be sure.

"Nah," he said, his voice slightly raspy. I wondered if he still smoked, or maybe it was a holdover from just having woken up? "I will take a bagel, though."

"Everything, toasted twice," I said, finally looking up and managing to smile back at him. His eyes widened a fraction before he nodded, looking pleased.

"With chive and onion cream cheese." He studied me for a moment, brushing some hair off his forehead. It was obvious that he still dyed it black, the color making him look paler by comparison. "You haven't returned any of my calls."

I sighed before turning away to grab a cup, knowing that this conversation was an inevitability but still not wanting to have it. Oh, well, at least he was being nice about it.

"Yeah," I replied, filling up his cup with our classic dark roast. "I'm sorry about that, seriously. I've just had a lot on my mind."

"I don't blame you," he said, taking the cup from me. Stepping over to the milk bar, he tore open a packet of Splenda and dumped it into the coffee. I watched with vague interest, slightly put off by this small detail. I wouldn't have pegged him as an artificial sweetener guy. "I mean, you just lost a loved one. It makes sense that you'd need some time."

"Loved one, right," I rolled my eyes. I watched as the bagel I'd split open slowly crisped up in the oven, turning back the time so it could toast a little longer.

"Okay, maybe that's not the best choice of words, considering what you told me," Pete added, taking a sip of coffee. He grimaced, and I had to assume it was because it was so hot. "Not that you told me a lot."

"Nah, I mostly cried like a sap," I said, almost cringing at my conduct. Whiskey and melancholy were not a good look for me at the best of times, but to unravel like that in front of someone I barely knew...god, what he must think of me. This line of thought made me stare at him, suddenly incredulous. "Why the hell would you want to talk to me again after all that, anyway? That couldn't possibly have been any fun for you."

Pete shrugged, watching as I wrapped his bagel, throwing a container of cream cheese and a knife into the bag as well. I handed it over, our fingers touching for a moment as he reached for it. Looking up, I saw him smirking and I knew that he'd made contact with me on purpose. I quickly drew back, not sure how to respond, my heartbeat ramping up from just this small gesture.

"Let's see," he said, tapping his cup against his chin and looking up toward the ceiling. "I notice a cute guy in my section so I ask him if he wants to hang out. I figure we'll go for a drive or whatever, but instead he invites me out to a cemetery in the middle of the night so we can sit next to a freshly-dug grave and look at the stars. What part of that wouldn't be fun for me?"

I couldn't help but laugh at that question, both from its absurdity and just how pleased Pete seemed about asking it. He looked boyish in that moment, and I could remember him as the awkward Goth kid he used to be.

"Old habits die hard, huh?" I asked, leaning against the counter, my hands splayed out on the cool Formica surface.

"Man, if you'd started reciting Poe to me I would've fallen in love right then and there," he said, grinning widely.

Now my heartbeat was nearly out of control, my brain hitting a brick wall as soon as the word 'love' was thrown around. I began to worry my hands, not sure where to look; my eyes skittering everywhere but not being able to settle.

"I-I'm not r-really ready for a-anything too serious," I managed to stammer, hating that my old childhood tics were starting to rear their heads: shaking, wracked with nerves, my words coming out broken and stilted. Craig had worked overtime trying to eradicate them from me, his methods brutal, but old habits die hard, don't they?

"Hey, hey, calm down," Pete said, sounding concerned. "I wasn't trying to freak you out, man. I just meant that I'd like to get to know you better. Is that okay?"

"I-I'm not sure t-that's a good idea," I said, trying to control my tongue but failing abysmally. I stopped and took a deep breath, shutting my eyes. "It was a m-mistake going out i-in the first place. I don't know if I'm really ready."

Silence descended between us then, and I was just glad that the store was empty; the only sound Peggy Lee playing over the sound system. I dared to open my eyes, and Pete was watching me with open curiosity.

"I know you've been avoiding me, and it's cool," he said, kindly, no doubt realizing that his words would embarrass me terribly. I guess I hadn't exactly been subtle when I'd scooted into the back of the store every time he'd walked inside. I probably would've done the same thing this morning if I hadn't been the only one available to watch the front while my parents were busy. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm here if you ever need someone to talk to. Okay?"

"Why are you being so nice?" I raised an eyebrow, not being able to accept his kindness at face value. If my years with Craig had taught me anything it was that you couldn't treat the supposed goodwill of other without some suspicion. After all, people are rarely who they seem on the surface; I'd learned that the hard way.

"Well, if recent events are anything to go by," he paused, his expression becoming wry then thoughtful. "It seems like you could use a friend."

"Are you saying well-adjusted people don't cry for hours in cemeteries?" I asked, starting to feel less panicked; mainly because Pete was being so understanding.

"As a general rule, no," he smiled, suddenly holding up the coffee and bagel. "How much do I owe you?"

I waved his question away.

"They're on the house. You know, as thanks; for everything." I smiled, my eyes catching on his lip piercing again and lingering. All at once, in the craziest part of my brain, I could imagine that cold metal against my skin as I -

That's when the phone rang, disrupting my thoughts; a sharp squeal cutting through what was turning into a surprisingly nice moment. I went to reach for the phone on the wall behind me when it cut off abruptly. I shrugged, turning back to Pete.

"I guess my mom or dad picked up the one in the back," I said.

"Gotcha," he said, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes, suddenly appearing weirdly bashful. He was dressed in a long black jacket and black slacks, no doubt on his way to work, if I had to guess. "So, I was thinking. What if -"

"Tweek, honey," my mom broke in, coming from the back, the phone in her hand. She glanced at Pete and smiled, having told me somewhere along the way that she appreciated his ongoing support of the store. "Oh, good morning."

He tipped the coffee to her, nodding slightly.

"Morning, Mrs. Tweak."

She turned to me, a concerned look on her face. Once again, I tried to ignore just how much older she looked these days; the fine lines much deeper around her eyes. It had taken some getting used to, seeing my folks again after so long...for all intents and purposes, we were all completely different people.

"Craig's dad is on the phone. He wants to speak with you."

Sweat began cropping up on the back of my neck at these words, my eyes darting to Pete who was watching with casual interest. I glanced at my mom, at the phone waiting in her hand.

"Tell him I'm not here," I said, pleading with my eyes. "I can't handle talking to him right now."

She gave me a look, her expression fading from concern into disapproval; a mom look if there ever was one.

"You've been avoiding their calls all week," she said, her hand pressed over the receiver. She shook the phone a little for emphasis. "I'm sure they've already figured out that you're here, son. Besides, their son just died," she flicked her eyes to Pete as well, her brow knitted. "The very least you could do is talk to them."

"I don't owe them anything," I snapped, angry that she would try to guilt me like this, and in front of an outsider. I couldn't help but think that she was trying to make me uncomfortable enough to just give in.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna go," Pete spoke up, beginning to back toward the door. He caught my eyes. "Call me if you want to talk."

"Sure, yeah," I said, waving him away. I waited until the bells tinkled over the door again and he was out of sight to turn back to my mother, my mood quickly souring as anxiety and anger converged on me. "You didn't need to say all that in front of him."

"Tweek, I wasn't trying to put you on the spot, but the Tuckers are still good friends of ours." She sighed, brushing a hand over her mouth. "I know that there's a lot you don't want to talk about when it comes to your relationship with Craig, but you can't take that out on his parents. It isn't fair."

"I'll tell you what isn't fair," I said. "That they're walking around still thinking that they buried a saint when they don't know the first fucking thing about their own son. Not a single goddamn thing."

"Language, Tweek," she gasped, reducing me to a temperamental ten year old in less than a second. She sagged against the counter, appearing very tired suddenly. "Look, can you do this for me, huh? It's so hard making up excuse after excuse, especially after everything that's happened. They're just going to keep calling until you talk to them; I can feel it."

She held out the phone, and I noticed that her hand was shaking. It was this small detail that broke my resolve, and I angrily snatched the phone from her.

"Fine, whatever," I said. "I'll do it for you, okay? It isn't for them."

"You seem manic," she replied, gently. "Have you taken your -"

"Don't start with me about that," I said, undoing my apron and pulling it over my head. I tossed it aside. "I'm a grown man, mom. I can handle myself, okay?"

"Right, of course," she said, watching me as I walked away, the phone clenched in my hand.

Stepping into the hushed stillness of the back, I ignored my father as I passed through and into the break room, though I could feel his eyes resting on me. Slamming the door behind me, I slumped into one of the chairs and finally brought the phone to my ear after taking a huge intake of breath; my heart pounding uncomfortably fast.

"Hello?"

"Tweek, Tweek? Is that you?" Mr. Tucker's deep voice flooded my ear, pulling me into a past that I had crawled out of by the skin of my teeth years before. I cringed. "God, it's so great to hear your voice!"

There was a pause as I tried to wrap my head around just how _happy_ he sounded. It was bizarre.

"How have you been, Mr. Tucker?" I asked, feeling unsure about the question as soon as it met the air. The man's son had just been buried, how the fuck did I think he was?

"Oh, call me Thomas, son. After everything that's happened, we should be on a first name basis, don't you think?"

I resisted the urge to tell him that I didn't want to be on any basis with him, but I refrained. I let out some of the air trapped in my lungs.

"Uh, sure, Thomas," I replied, feeling weird about calling anyone's parent by their first name, especially Craig's. It was just so unbelievably awkward. "So, uh, what can I do for you?"

"Laura and I didn't get a chance to speak with you at the funeral," he said. "We thought that was such a shame, you know?"

I bit my tongue. I could hardly tell him that I'd actively avoided everyone at the funeral except for Kyle and Kenny, for obvious reasons. When the silence stretched on, Mr. Tucker continued on, his voice becoming more animated.

"Anyway, we were hoping that we could all get together for dinner tonight. You know, talk about old times; reminisce. We're going back to Denver tomorrow and we'd really like to see you before we leave."

Now I managed to find my tongue, though my response could hardly be considered eloquent; really, it was more a series of grunts and half-formed words. I could barely believe his proposal, the whole conversation coming completely out of left field.

"I know it's sudden, but we've missed you, kiddo," he said, his voice softening. Just like my mother before him, he had swiftly reduced me to a child in a matter of seconds. All at once, I thought that if I looked down at my feet they'd be dangling inches above the floor, and the door would open up and Craig would come walking in; the years disappearing in an instant.

"It would mean a lot to us," he added before I could respond, a sudden hitch developing in his voice that tore through all of my defenses and straight to my heart. The silence gathered again, and I knew that I had no choice but to concede.

"Where should I meet you?" I sighed, slumping in my chair and feeling emptied out, the obvious grief in the man's voice serving to be my undoing. "And what time?"

\------

When I walked into Buca De Faggoncini at 7:30 that night, I was still trapped in what felt like a surreal haze. When I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Tucker in a corner booth, Craig's sister with them, the surrealism became more potent, and as I made my way over I had to keep reminding myself that all of this was real; this was actually happening, this meeting.

Mr. Tucker stood from the table, all legs and paunchy stomach while Mrs. Tucker remained seated, her silvery blonde hair swept up into a bun dotted with small pearls. She smiled at me, but it looked strained, the lines around her eyes much deeper than my mother's. I'd always considered her a pretty woman and she still was, but she just looked so tired, so wrung out.

Tricia, for her part, looked surprisingly fresh-faced and full of life, her long, tawny hair running down her back. She was wearing a forest green gown that complemented her eyes, the slick silk adhering to her body and showing off her slenderness. She nodded to me, her hand wrapped around the stem of a glass of white wine.

"Tweek! You look great!" Mr. Tucker greeted me, and suddenly his large arms were wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close. I fought the urge to pull away, taken aback at such unexpected closeness. He was a large man, he always had been, and I almost felt like I was going to get lost as he held me against his scratchy suit jacket. Finally, he pulled back, but he held onto my arms, appraising me with open admiration.

"Doesn't he look great, Laura?" He asked, turning to his wife.

"You really do, Tweek," Mrs. Tucker smiled, her wedding ring flashing as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's been so long. Come and sit down, dear."

Thankfully, Mr. Tucker released me and I was able to take a seat beside Tricia, her rose-scented perfume filtering under my nose. Mr. and Mrs. Tucker sat across from us, and I glanced up to see two sets of eyes resting on me, making me feel weighted down.

"Do you need a drink?" Tricia spoke up, tapping her glass. She nudged me. "You look like you could use one."

"Tricia, please," Mrs. Tucker said, giving her daughter an exasperated look. I got the impression that there was some tension between them.

"That'd be nice, actually," I said, trying to defuse whatever was beginning.

Mr. Tucker gestured to the server who came over and looked at me expectantly. I gestured to Tricia's drink.

"I'll take whatever she's having, please."

"Can I see your ID, please?" He asked.

"Uh, sure," I said, fishing my wallet out of my pocket and plucking out my ID. I held it up.

"Thanks," he said, studying it. "I'll be right back with that. Is there anything else I can get you folks before I go?"

"We're fine for now, young man," Mr. Tucker said, holding up his menu. "We're still deciding."

"You still get carded?" Tricia snickered, taking a swig of wine and ogling the waiter as he walked away. "That's so cute."

"Tweek was blessed with youthful looks," Mrs. Tucker said, studying me with oddly hungry eyes. "Just like Kyle. Did you notice how -"

"I don't want to hear that name tonight," Mr. Tucker seethed, slamming his menu down on the table, making all of us jump. "I've heard that name enough in the past few days to last me the rest of my life."

"You're right. I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Tucker replied, sinking into herself.

Mr. Tucker sighed and turned to me, rubbing his hands together; the action of skin meeting skin creating a raspy sound in the quiet. He looked apologetic, but anger was tightening his mouth as well, his jaw set.

"I know this goes without saying, but we'd always hoped that you'd end up with Craig," he explained, reaching out and picking up a tumbler of amber liquid. He knocked it back quickly, shaking his head. "When he married that Broflovski kid it took some getting used to. He was never right for our son...recent events are a testament to that fact, wouldn't you say?"

All of the air seemed to be sucked out of the room as I scrambled for a response. For a moment, all I could do was stare at him in open-mouthed surprise, torn between wanting to defend Kyle and desperately wanting to just run away from the whole ugly business. It was obvious that Craig's father was completely in the dark about his son's character, his truth, even after everything that had happened.

"That little prick tried to say my son was abusing him," Mr. Tucker continued, leading me to believe that he hadn't expected a response in the first place. "That my son, a leading doctor at fucking Johns Hopkins, one of the best damn hospitals in the entire country, was abusing him; had been doing it for years. Can you believe that? Huh?"

"Thomas, please," Mrs. Tucker said, resting a hand on his arm as she reached for her napkin, covertly dabbing at the tears rising in her eyes. "Let's not do this tonight."

"That ingrate is trying to destroy our only son's name, Laura. How the hell am I supposed to just let it go?" He asked, before cutting his eyes back to me. He tapped the table sharply to emphasize his next words. "My Craig never hurt anyone in his entire life, you hear me? He saved lives, he didn't destroy them. He wanted to make the world a better place."

"Right, daddy," Tricia interjected, finishing off the wine in her glass. The server appeared then, setting my glass before me. Seeming to notice the rise in tension, he quickly walked away, not attempting to take our orders. "Craig was just so perfect, wasn't he? God, are you ever going to get tired of this speech?"

"And I've had just enough of your smart mouth, young lady," he snapped, pointing at her. "I won't have you disparaging your brother, too. Don't you have any respect?"

"Are you serious right now?" She asked, frowning. All of her good humor seemed to evaporate instantly, and I could feel her tensing up beside me, causing me to do the same. "Are you really going to talk to me about respect? Daddy, Craig had no respect for any of us. He was ashamed of us and you know it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mr. Tucker said, snapping his menu open and glancing at it.

"Oh, yes you do. Remember that ridiculous party he and Kyle threw a while ago? It was obvious us being there embarrassed him." She took a hold of my arm, trying to appeal to me. "You should've seen it, Tweek...expensive champagne, professional decorators, the works. That stupid party probably cost him a fortune but he barely spoke to us the whole time we were there."

"Your brother was busy hosting," Mrs. Tucker said, staring daggers at her daughter. "Stop trying to turn it into something it wasn't."

Tricia was gearing up to respond when the waiter finally came back, providing a merciful reprieve from the Tucker family's obvious breakdown. I took a deep drink of wine, attempting to study my menu as my hands trembled. I was just glad that I'd remembered to bring my anti-anxiety meds, knowing that I was probably going to need them; I had not been wrong.

"Has everyone decided?" He asked, his cheerful attitude terribly out of place in the face of so much discord. I almost felt sorry for him.

"Spaghetti," Mr. Tucker grunted, holding up his menu.

"Very good," the waiter replied, taking it. "Meatballs?"

"Fine."

"And you, ma'am?" He asked, turning to Mrs. Tucker.

"Caesar salad, please," she said, softly, handing over her menu as well. "With chicken."

The waiter turned to Tricia, taking her menu, too.

"More wine, please," she smiled, winking at him. "You might as well just leave the bottle, honey."

"Tricia!" Mrs. Tucker exploded, giving her a scandalized look. She glanced at the waiter, her voice apologetic. "She didn't mean that."

"Yes, I did, mother," Tricia said. "I feel like drinking my dinner tonight."

"Tricia," Mr. Tucker said, his voice practically dripping with warning.

"Fine, I'll have shrimp scampi, too," she said, giving the waiter a coy smile. "Does it come recommended?"

"Uh, sure," the waiter said, clearly out of his element. Almost desperately, he looked at me, possibly viewing me as a saving grace because I was the only one not adding fuel to the fire.

"Mushroom ravioli," I said, offering my menu to him. "And more wine, please."

"Tweek, honey, you haven't finished the wine in your glass," Mrs. Tucker reminded me gently.

"Tweek's just thinking ahead, mother," Tricia said, leaning back and crossing one long leg over the other. "Can you really blame him?"

\-------

After an hour had passed of Mr. Tucker raving on occasion about his son's sullied reputation and back and forth bickering between all three of them, I was more than ready to go. I'd only picked at my food, having absolutely no appetite, but I'd managed to throw back my fair share of wine, splitting a bottle with Tricia who was proving to have the constitution of a sailor. After a while, though, even her caustic words began to slur, and that's when I began to pray that the night would just end already.

"At least try to control yourself, Tricia," Mrs. Tucker said, appearing rumpled and thoroughly done herself. She was leaning against her husband, who seemed like the only person at the table that still had a modicum of energy.

"I'm very much in control, mother," Tricia replied, stabbing at a piece of shrimp and popping it in her mouth. She smiled while she chewed, though it reeked of petulance.

"Anyway," Mr. Tucker said, rubbing his eyes before looking at me. "We had an ulterior motive for meeting with you, son. Of course we wanted to see you, but there's some business that needs attending to as well."

"Business?" I asked, setting my fork down slowly. I already didn't like whatever was coming, feeling properly blindsided. Craig had been good at pulling shit like that too, making you think things were one way when they were something else entirely. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, we've met with Craig's attorney, which is to be expected," he said, pulling something out of his pocket. He held whatever it was in his fist. "And we've dealt with the will reading, which is also to be expected, and we wanted you to know that he left some of his belongings to you."

Reeling, I looked around at all of them, my look of shock met with resigned expressions. Turning my focus back to Mr. Tucker, I shook my head.

"You can't be serious."

"I am, and what's more, I also have a proposition for you," he continued, looking down at the table for a moment, rapping his fist against the wood. "You see, my son was what I would consider a hopeless romantic, and even though we've come to find out that he and Kyle were in the process of getting a divorce -"

He paused, shutting his eyes tightly, almost like what he was saying was physically paining him.

"He was foolish and didn't change his will," he went on, opening his eyes slowly. They almost appeared unfocused, like they weren't seeing what was before him, but rather what he'd already lost. "I guess he thought that he and Kyle would make amends, but clearly that didn't happen, so, that's where you come in."

"I don't understand."

"Craig left almost everything he had in the world to Kyle," Mr. Tucker explained, his voice harsh. "His assets, his cars, his money...stocks, all of it. He bought a condo in Baltimore and he even left that to Kyle, but he doesn't want any of it."

"That makes sense," I said before I could stop myself. I slapped a hand over my mouth, squirming under Mr. Tucker's intense scrutiny. "I mean, I still don't understand."

"Kyle did take the majority of the money and he gave it to various charities," Mr. Tucker said, stilling rapping his fist against the table, the sound almost unbearable under the weight of the moment. "But everything else? He doesn't want to have anything to do with going through it and getting it ready to be auctioned off or kept. He's basically left the whole mess in our laps."

"I can't go out there and see all of my son's things," Mrs. Tucker finally spoke, pressing her napkin to her eyes again. "Not right now, not yet. I'll walk into his home and it'll be like losing him again." She began to sob quietly, her husband holding her close. "I'll just be waiting for him to walk through the door the whole time...my little boy. My baby."

I could feel my heart dropping to hear such agony, and suddenly I felt awful for harboring so much animosity toward Craig's parents. Sure, they couldn't see the forest for the trees but their refusal to see the truth was the byproduct of unconditional love. How could I hold that against them? I began to reach toward her but I stopped, drawing my hand back. All I could do was wait for them to continue, hardly able to comprehend or accept the information being lobbed at me.

"So, we were thinking you could go out to Baltimore and start putting his things in order," Mr. Tucker said, stroking his wife's hair softly. "Just until we can pull ourselves together enough to come out to help. I mean, you were planning on going back to the east coast anyway, right?"

I nodded slowly, having told them that I'd been settled on the coast for quite some time, though I hadn't given them the details. I'd been hiding my whereabouts for so long, only my parents knew the truth at this point, and even telling them had been difficult.

"I was planning on leaving soon," I admitted, reaching down and taking up my napkin, worrying it in my hands. "But I couldn't possibly -"

"You were the only person that seemed suitable for all of this," Mrs. Tucker cut in, drawing a piece of paper out of her purse. She began to slowly unfold it, offering it to me. I sucked in my breath to see what it was: a sketch I'd done years ago of Craig for school, crudely rendered and embarrassingly unskilled. Without thinking, I reached out to take it, my eyes hungrily taking it in.

"I haven't seen this in years," I said, studying it while nostalgia flooded me. "You had it all along?"

"Craig left it with some of his things when he went off to college," Mrs. Tucker replied, gazing at the drawing fondly. "He was always so attached to the things you gave him...to you, really."

Oh, if they only knew the truth in that statement! I sighed, slowly beginning to fold the drawing back up. I shook my head, entirely overwhelmed.

"I don't think I'm the best person to go through Craig's estate," I said, carefully. "There's a lot about our history that you don't know about."

"I'll even give you an incentive," Mr. Tucker said, seemingly ignoring what I just said. He finally opened up his hand, revealing a set of keys. "You can have the Lexus he left to Kyle. It's all yours, bought and paid for. What do you think?"

"What's the other key for?" I asked, eyeing the contents of his hand with growing disgust. Like a car was really enough of a reason for me to overlook Craig's past cruelties.

"A storage unit out in Baltimore," he replied, setting the keys in the middle of the table. "Apparently, there's a box with your name on it out there, too. Waiting."

I stared at the keys before I looked at Craig's parents, my heart hammering painfully in my chest. I wanted to open my mouth and tell them everything, every awful truth, but their faces were the picture of devastation, and I just couldn't do it to them. I'd been treated with cruelty in the past, and I had no intention of passing it along. Besides, I had a feeling they wouldn't believe anything I said, anyway. No, their impression of their son seemed to be set in stone, completely impervious to outside threats, no matter how credible they were.

"I just don't know," I said, finally, helplessly. Truth be told, the prospect of undertaking something like this made me feel nauseous, but I couldn't deny that I was slightly curious too, in a macabre, perverse way. Still, that didn't mean I wanted to recklessly walk back into a past I had tried for so long to forget.

"Why don't you guys give the poor kid a break?" Tricia suddenly spoke, having been conspicuously silent through the entire exchange. "Can't you see how hard this is for him?"

"Well, we wouldn't have to ask for his help if you'd step up for this family," her father snapped, slamming his fist on the table.

"I already told you I'd do it if I didn't have to work!"

"I'm sure your job isn't so important that you can't ask to take more time off," Mrs. Tucker said, and even I was taken aback at how condescending she sounded.

Tricia scoffed, trying to assume an air of indifference that was woefully ineffective. She was hurt by her mother's words, clearly. Who wouldn't be?

"Mother, you act like my job is completely worthless."

"You know I don't feel that way, dear, but it's not like Craig's was," she said, her words like knives flying across the table. I almost felt like I should duck out of the way. "He had certain responsibilities, you know, and -"

"Mother, I'm a choreographer for an off-Broadway show!" Tricia yelled, sitting up suddenly; breaking her languid pose. "I'm not a fucking prostitute in a back-alley, and I'm sick of hearing about Craig's job! He's dead, accept it!"

"Tricia, you apologize to your mother this instant!" Mr. Tucker thundered, taking a hold of the table and leaning across it; his posture threatening. Tricia didn't back down, though.

"I won't!" She replied, standing and throwing her napkin down. "I'm tired of apologizing and I'm sick of living in Craig's shadow. I'm done!"

She stormed away, her high heels clacking on the floor as she retreated through the restaurant. Without a backward glance, she slammed through the exit and disappeared into the night outside. Mrs. Tucker was sobbing again, her face pressed against her husband's arm. He was trying to soothe her as I sat there, feeling terribly out of place and ready to be away from all of them; away from all of the memories and pain Craig's legacy dredged up.

"I-I'll think about it," I said, softly, scooting toward the end of the booth. I stood, looking down at them.

"Please, just consider it, okay?" Mr. Tucker said, plucking up the keys and depositing them in my reluctant hand. "It would mean so much to us."

I nodded before turning away, rushing through the crowd and feeling the eyes of the other patrons all over me. No doubt they'd heard the whole family melodrama unfold until it reached its breaking point, and now we were all the subject of strangers' scrutiny; a spectacle. Breaking through the doors, I sucked in lungfuls of cold, winter air until I'd stopped shaking, my hands on my knees as I panted.

"Don't you just love family dinners?" Tricia's voice broke through my racing thoughts. I looked up to see her leaning against a stunning silver Lexus, the slit in her skirt exposing a lean, pale leg. She was smoking a cigarette, which automatically instilled an instinctual fear in me. I stared at it as I drew closer, the keys clutched in my hand.

"You want one?" She asked, holding up the pack.

I shook my head, not wanting to explain my deep-seated aversion for cigarettes. I could thank her brother for that. Tearing my gaze away, I studied the car she was leaning against. It was gorgeous and looked almost brand-new, like it had barely been used.

"This is it," she said, blowing some smoke out of the corner of her mouth. "My father was so confident that you'd jump at the chance of taking care of Craig's bullshit that he had me drive the damn thing to the restaurant."

"It's beautiful," I said, walking alongside it and looking through the windows to the sleek interior. I'd never be able to afford a car like this on my own, not that I'd ever really wanted anything like it. Craig had always been obsessed with appearances and putting on airs so I was hardly surprised that he'd bought something so ostentatious for Kyle. I tried to imagine Kyle riding around in the Lexus and for whatever reason it hurt to consider. I'm sure he would've preferred to be treated well by his husband instead of being lavished with useless gifts.

"Are you actually gonna go through with it?" Tricia asked, knocking some of the ash off of her cigarette. "They really threw a lot at you at once, huh?"

I shrugged, placing a hand on the car and shivering at how cold it felt, almost like an overpriced pile of ice.

"They did, and I don't know." I glanced at her, wondering how much I was allowed to say; how much she'd be willing to hear. "I wasn't kidding when I said that there's a lot they don't know about my history with your brother."

"I know," she replied, surprising me. She sucked the cigarette down to its filter before tossing it away. "Believe me, Tweek, I'm well aware that my brother wasn't the perfect person they like to think he is." She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed. "They see only what they want to see, but I'm willing to face the truth. Know what I mean?"

I nodded, waiting.

"The last time I spoke to my brother, he called me out of nowhere," she said, crossing her arms and gazing up at the sky. "The thing about him was that he only reached out to us when he needed something. I accepted a long time ago that he didn't really want to have a relationship with me, but I was still happy when he called. It's actually pretty pathetic."

She sighed, pushing some of her hair off of her shoulder.

"Anyway, he wanted to know where Karen McCormick was living nowadays, so I told him, even though I couldn't understand why he'd even care." She rubbed her arms, shivering a little against the cold. In her anger, she'd forgotten to grab her jacket before coming outside.

"Did you want to get inside?" I asked, gesturing to the car and feeling weird for suggesting it. I couldn't just let her freeze to death, though; her dress was long but the material was so slight I knew it wasn't doing her any good. "I'm curious what it's like, anyway."

"Sure," she smiled, going around the car and waiting for me to unlock it. I climbed in as well, goggling at the fancy interior. She snickered at my expression. "Nice, huh?"

"Craig always liked expensive things," I said, a note of bitterness in my voice.

"Tell me about it," she said, sliding her hair off of her neck and over one shoulder, exposing pale, freckled skin. "You should see his old house. It's crazy."

"Where is it?"

"Oh, up in the estates," she replied, tapping a finger against her mouth. "1314 Crown Point Road, I think? Something like that."

"That's where he lived with Kyle?"

"Yeah," she said, and now she seemed sad, her eyes half-lidded. They slid to settle on my hand as I started up the car, a faint rumbling coursing through the Lexus. I turned on the heat to full blast, angling the sudden cold air toward our feet. "You should hear the way my father talks about Kyle, Tweek; like he's a dog. Or a monster."

"He's neither," I said, softly. "I'm sure he did what he did because he felt like he didn't have a choice."

She didn't reply, lapsing into silence as the car finally began to warm up slightly. All at once, I heard her sniffle and I looked at her in surprise, tears running down her face.

"I loved my brother, Tweek," she said, wiping the moisture from her face with the back of her hand. "But I talked to Karen, and she told me that Kyle showed up at her house with bruises on his face a while back. She said that he seemed terrified to go home, and then I remembered that Craig had called me out of nowhere asking me where Karen lived. Honestly, what am I supposed to think here?"

"None of this situation is easy," I replied. "Kyle _was_ terrified to go home, Tricia. He was afraid of your brother, and so was I. I still am."

"But, why? I just don't understand."

"Welcome to the club," I said, not wanting to get into the meat of my life with Craig so suddenly. I certainly didn't want to go into detail about Kyle's history with him, that wasn't my business to tell without permission. "Let's just say that your parents are living in an alternate reality, okay? The Craig they think they knew wasn't the truth. Kyle and I know the truth, and it isn't pretty."

"It usually isn't, is it?" She asked, sniffling again, a trembling hand pressing against her mouth. "So, what are you going to do?"

"I honestly don't know. I need time to think," I said, running my hands over the steering wheel. It was bizarre, sitting in the Lexus, like I was reaching into Kyle's memories and making them my own. For a moment, it was like I was living his life, and I could imagine him driving home from work or the store and knowing that Craig was waiting for him, already becoming afraid but trying to hope for the best.

There was a sudden rap at the window which startled us both, and I looked up to see Mr. Tucker peering through. Quickly, I slid the window down, almost wincing at the way he frowned at his daughter.

"We're getting ready to leave," Mr. Tucker said, his tone colder than the air whistling through his thinning hair. "Your mother is already in the rental. Oh, before I forget." He reached into his jacket and withdrew the sketch Mrs. Tucker had given me in the restaurant, handing it to me. "You forgot that, son. Laura wanted you to hold onto it...maybe it'll help you make a decision."

Wordlessly, I accepted it, tucking it into the center console. Mr. Tucker glanced around the interior before adopting a grim expression.

"It's nice, isn't it? Not that _he_ ever appreciated it, I'm sure."

Finally having reached my limit, I looked at him sharply.

"I won't even consider going to Baltimore for you if you continue to talk about Kyle like that, sir. He's my friend, regardless of your opinion of him."

He began to sputter, his face becoming red. That's when Tricia squeezed my leg gently, reaching over and kissing me softly on the cheek.

"I'll handle him," she whispered before opening the door and stepping out. Coming around the car, she took a hold of her father's arm. "Let's go, daddy. It's been a long night."

"Did you hear what -"

"Yes, I did. Leave him alone," she said, leaning down so that we were eye to eye. "I'll call your parent's store tomorrow and give you my number, okay? If you decide to go ahead with it, just let me know; I can give you all the details."

"Okay," I said, ignoring the way Mr. Tucker was suddenly trying to stare me down. "Just give me some time, okay?"

"Take all you need," she replied, practically dragging her father away as I rolled the window up, shutting out the chill from the weather and Mr. Tucker at the same time.

I lifted the sketch and studied it in the sharp lighting being thrown from the streetlights, almost allowing myself to fall backward through the memories and years; nearly transported to Craig's childhood bedroom where the picture had been born. I shook my head, not ready to go back to that time yet, opting instead to pull out my phone. I just held it for a moment, considering my options, before I finally dialed a number and waited, my breath caught in my throat.

\------

"Wow, you seriously get to keep this?" Pete asked, speeding the Lexus along the nearly-empty streets as I directed him, my phone balanced in my palm. "It handles really well."

"I'm not sure if I'm gonna keep it," I replied, studying the screen as my GPS navigated. "Take a left up here." I pointed.

"Right, boss," he quipped, turning the car down a long, dark road. "I'd keep it if I were you."

"I'm surprised you care about things like luxury cars," I commented, turning to look at him. "Isn't that awfully conformist of you?"

He snorted before speeding up, the headlights breaking through the woods as we traveled; thick and dense on either side of us, the road becoming slightly twisted.

"I kind of grew out of all of that, Tweek," he said, giving me a look I couldn't interpret. "Can't you tell?"

"You still dye your hair," I said, going back to my phone. "What's up with that?"

"Red hair doesn't suit me," he replied. "Not like that guy you were sitting with at the bar the other night."

"Kyle."

"Yeah, that's the kid."

"He's the same age as us," I said, sighing softly, remembering Mrs. Tucker's comment about Kyle and I's supposed "youthful looks." Who even cared anymore, it's not like they seemed to do us any good, other than attracting the attention of Craig Tucker.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Kyle's old house, ironically enough," I replied, looking at the road. "Okay, it's going to be up here on the left."

I expected Pete to question my response but instead he just continued to drive, flooding me with secret relief. I was starting to see that he didn't ask questions at what I would consider inappropriate times, opting instead to go with the flow of things. That much had been obvious when I'd called him earlier, offering up very little explanation but asking if he wanted to hang out. He'd just asked me where and when, and when I told him I was too tipsy to drive and to come pick me up in the restaurant's parking lot, he'd just accepted it without demanding an explanation.

"This is it," I said, gazing up at the house in awe as Pete came to a stop, idling at the curb. Craig and Kyle's old home was huge, more a mansion than a house, and it seemed to sprawl on forever, taking up much more space than really seemed necessary. I stepped out of the car, my eyes never leaving the imposing structure. A black iron gate ran the perimeter of the property and I went right up to it, clutching at the bars as I stared.

"This is pretty impressive," Pete said, coming up beside me and taking a hold of the bars as well. "Kyle used to live here?"

"Yeah, with Craig," I said, taking note of the rose bushes flanking both sides of the house, fluttering softly as errant winds rushed by us. Vaguely, I could remember Kyle saying that Craig had loved roses, that they were his favorite...vivid images of red roses being laid on his grave coming back to me. Suddenly, a sob broke through my lips but I tried to stifle it behind my hand.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" Pete asked, placing a hand on the small of my back. Clutching the bars tighter, I willed myself to stay put, to not move away. I was going to have to get used to being touched again. I nodded, but another sob followed the first.

"I'm sorry," I said, turning away from the mansion, the rose bushes. "I always seem to start crying when we're together, huh?"

"Hey, I'm not going to judge you," Pete said, his hand settling on my waist now. "Did you want to talk about it?"

I took a step toward him, suddenly craving some kind of warmth that wasn't artificial. I was heartened when he didn't move back, staying solidly in place.

"We're basically strangers, aren't we?" I asked, taking a hold of his jacket, ignoring the way my hands trembled.

He considered this, obviously confused.

"More or less. So?"

"Would you want to listen to a stranger's story?"

Leaning down, he placed his forehead against mine, his eyebrows raised.

"Only if they want to tell it, then I'm all ears."

I laughed, trying to forget about Kyle's diary in my pocket, my sketch of Craig folded and tucked inside of it; a mountain of secrets and sorrows at my fingertips. I stepped back, keeping Pete at arms' length, suddenly overwhelmed by being so close to him, by allowing him to infiltrate my carefully constructed wall. He was just so sweet, though; so open. But Craig had been reasonably sweet in the beginning, too.

"Where do I even start?" I asked, leaning against the fence.

"Wherever you want," he replied, glancing back toward the mansion. "I can't believe you actually know people who used to live in a house like this."

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," I said. "Trust me. Besides, from what I understand it was never a home, you know what I mean? It was just a place they slept in, if that makes any sense."

 _A place full of suffering_ , I thought, chastising myself for being dramatic but knowing it was the truth, all the same.

"Why are we here, anyway?" Pete asked, coming closer but not touching me, my body language clearly conveying that I wasn't ready for more at the moment.

"I just thought seeing this place might help me make a decision," I said, focusing on the amber light illuminating the windows. I could only speculate about the horrors that had happened inside, behind the light, the thought making me shudder. I knew all the answers were inside of Kyle's diary, inside of Rose, but I just didn't have the strength to uncover them yet. Suddenly, I felt terribly weak and small; nearly overcome with unspoken fear.

Suddenly, my phone chirped in my pocket and I drew it out, happy to see that it was from Kyle. I'd texted him after I'd gotten off the phone with Pete, asking him what he wanted me to do with the Lexus. I smirked when I saw his response, because it was just so unabashedly in line with his personality:

_**You can keep it or burn it, whichever you want; I'll support you either way.** _

After a moment, another text came in:

_**Don't let Craig's parents (his dad, especially) intimidate you, Tweek. You need to do what makes you happy, okay? I know what it's like to live on another person's terms, and so do you...make the best decision for yourself and fuck everyone else.** _

Now I was genuinely smiling, quickly beginning to write out a response. Before I could, another text came through:

_**Pictured here: living on my own terms:** _

Suddenly, a photo of Kenny and Kyle popped up, their faces pressed close together and looking so happy my breath caught in my throat. The fear and misery I'd seen in Kyle's eyes seemed to be pushed aside as they stood on the deck of a boat, the ocean stretching out behind them; their arms wrapped around each other. Seeing their elation filled me with a crazy, impulsive need to recapture my own life, free of fear and my inability to deal with the past.

"Anything you want to share?" Pete asked, nearly startling me because I'd been so lost in thought.

"I think so," I said, slowly, a wild, impetuous idea coming to me as I studied Kyle's picture. Suddenly, I ached for that sort of freedom, that carefree abandon. I glanced at Pete, smiling, wondering if I was beginning to cycle; a manic frenzy pulling at me as I rushed on, a question spilling from my lips that I hadn't given a good deal of thought:

"What do you think of road trips?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings!
> 
> Jesus, this took me forever & a day to write, you guys. Writer's block seriously sucks, lemme tell you. It's like my head is stuffed w/ cotton and it's so hard to focus. :P This story is so slow going bc I'm trying to get a handle on the characters; especially Craig. I have to walk such a fine line w/ him that it makes writing his parts so freaking hard, ughhhhhh. Hopefully, I get him (and Tweek) right - who even knows?
> 
> Anyway, ENJOY! <3 
> 
> PS: Thanks for the feedback so far! I appreciate it!

Fragile snowflakes began drifting through the air as my sudden question hung between us, suspended in the silence it had created. Pete stared at me while I waited, feeling foolish and newly exposed; chastising myself for being so reckless. Looking toward the mansion, I tried to play it off, to defuse what I considered rising, uncomfortable tension.

"Forget I asked that, okay? I wasn't thinking straight...my mind is all over the place these days."

"Hold on," Pete said, touching my arm softly.

I turned to him, my eyebrows raised. He merely looked thoughtful and confused, though I could hardly blame him.

"I like road trips," he continued, a smattering of snowflakes coming down to settle in his hair. "And I'm not necessarily opposed to going on one, but didn't you just say that we're basically strangers?"

I nodded, beginning to feel increasingly embarrassed.

"Well, shouldn't we, like, get to know each other a little before we jump into anything like that? What do you think?"

"That makes sense," I said, shivering slightly as a cold wind passed through, blowing the snow sideways. In the distance, I could see the rose bushes being whipped around, petals and leaves becoming scattered.

"It's too cold to stay out here," Pete commented, his hand still resting on my arm. Gently, he gripped my coat. "Do you want to come back to my apartment so we can talk about this some more?"

I considered this for a moment, and some of my hesitance must have registered on my face because he spoke again, quickly.

"We wouldn't be alone, by the way. My roommate will be there, and his girlfriend, too, I'm pretty sure. She's always staying over."

"You don't live alone?" I asked, curious now. I was also relieved at this bit of information. I didn't feel nearly ready enough to go to a guy's place if it was just going to be the two of us. The thought was mildly terrifying to me, like I wouldn't be able to escape if I needed to; not that Pete really gave me the impression that he'd try anything, but still. This was the shit I had to wade through every time I considered stepping out of my comfort zone; I'd been conditioned, after all.

"Nah," he said, holding onto my arm as he led the way back to the waiting Lexus. I found the gesture oddly sweet; old fashioned, even. "I wanted to be able to save up some money and besides, I don't really want to live alone. I don't like too much quiet."

"I'm just the opposite," I replied, blushing when he opened the door for me and waited for me to slide into the front seat. He waited a moment before shutting the door, making sure I was settled. After a moment, he slid behind the wheel beside me and turned, his expression questioning.

"So, what do you want to do?"

I glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at the mansion, all but becoming obscured through the thickening curtain of snow. Thoughts of spending another night in my old bedroom came to me as well, and suddenly I couldn't bear facing it again so soon after being propositioned by the Tuckers. No, if anything I was in the perfect mindset for a distraction.

"I'd like to see your place," I said, resting my cheek against the supple leather of the seat. "Let's go."

\------

By the time we made it to Pete's apartment complex, the snow was really picking up and my buzz from before was nearly gone. I was glad that my mind was clearing up but I was also feeling pretty ridiculous, too. I couldn't believe I'd asked Pete to go on a road trip with me just out of thin air - he must thing I'm completely insane, which could be entirely the case, but I still felt so stupid. I could barely look him in the eye when he parked the Lexus and came around to open my door before I had a chance to collect myself. Looking up at him, I had to say something about the gesture.

"You're very polite." I stepped from the car, aware that his hand was on the small of my back; the heat of it seeming to bleed through layers of clothes, though I knew that had to be an impossibility.

"My grandma raised me to be a gentleman," he said, leading the way up the stairs to a second floor apartment; the stairwell open to the outside and the snow. Faint snatches of stars could be seen when the clouds shifted, but they were very quickly blotted out. The apartment building itself bordered on being nondescript, the complex built just beyond Stark's Pond within the last couple of years.

"Does she still live around here?" I asked, waiting as he unlocked the door and slightly disappointed when he'd had to take his hand away to retrieve the key from his pocket.

"Oh, she passed a few years ago." He pushed the door open and held it, waiting for me to pass through. "In fact, she's buried in the same cemetery as your ex. Her plot isn't too far from his, now that I think about it."

Trying to swallow down the taste of my own foot, I wasn't sure what to say to that bit of information. I just hoped I hadn't upset him.

"I'm sorry," I said as I walked into the warm living room, which was dark and slightly hard to navigate for a moment. "I didn't mean -"

"She was sick for a long time, Tweek. It's okay, don't apologize." He reached through the dimness to squeeze my arm gently. Slowly, my eyes began to adjust and that's when I realized we weren't alone in the room.

"It's about time you brought someone home, Thelman," a deep voice spoke into the gloom, and then a light was being turned on. It cast a red glow around the room, the shade having been covered with a blood-colored bit of material. On a black leather couch sat two people, a girl and guy, both of them staring at us with open amusement.

"Do you remember Firkle?" Pete asked me, beginning to unbutton his coat. "And Bloodrayne, of course."

"I thought I told you not to call me that," the girl said, crossing her arms. I was glad that she did, because she was sitting there practically naked, clothed only in a peach-colored pair of panties and matching bra. She was also wearing a silk dressing gown, also peach, but it was so frail that it didn't cover anything. On her feet she wore fuzzy, high heeled slippers.

"Sorry," Pete smirked, nudging me a little. "I mean Katie. Say hi to Tweek, guys."

"Tweek," Firkle repeated, studying me. He was shirtless and wearing tight black jeans that were unbuttoned and unzipped, his feet bare. He was so pale that he almost looked translucent, and he had kohl-rimmed eyes. Clearly, the Goth aesthetics from yesteryear were still firmly instilled in him. Glancing between the two of them, they both looked like they could use a hearty meal, their bodies so thin they bordered on being skeletal.

"Your folks own the coffee place, right?" He asked, reaching into a bowl of popcorn that was sitting next to him.

"Yes," I replied, slowly beginning to take in more of the room as I tried to ignore the way they were staring at me. "I came back to town to attend a funeral." My eyes caught on a giant painting of a tiger off to the side, bottles of acrylic paints and brushes sitting before it. The space was moderately sized and filled with the black leather furniture, a small kitchen and dining room adjoining the living room.

"So, you've been away," Katie commented, crossing one slim leg over the other; her slipper dangling off of her toe. She held up her long, silver hair, exposing her neck. "You managed to escape this place, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it," I muttered, following behind Pete as he walked across the room. As we passed in front of a giant TV, I noticed what was on the screen, a static shot of a woman being sexually accosted by numerous pink tentacles. My eyes widened and I stopped, causing Pete to pause as well, looking back at me and the TV. He sighed.

"La Blue Girl again?" He asked, turning away and heading for the kitchen. "How many times are you guys going to watch this?"

"It's research," Firkle spoke up, popping a kernel into his mouth. "You know that."

"And it's a classic," Katie added, standing and stretching her hands towards the ceiling, her dressing gown floating around her.

"Right, classic hentai," Pete sighed, opening the fridge. "How could I forget?"

"We're just waiting for the Adderall to kick in so we can get back to work," Katie said, walking by me to go and lean on the bar, watching as Pete poured orange juice in a couple of glasses; a cloud of sweet-scented perfume following in her wake. "Are there any Twinkies left?"

Pete threw her one before setting one of the tumblers on the bar, glancing at me.

"You want a Twinkie? That's all these two live on when they're trying to make a deadline."

"Hey, we also drink wine and eat popcorn," Firkle said, coming up behind me and nudging me toward the bar. He smelled of patchouli and Katie's perfume, this small detail making me blush for some reason.

"No, I'm okay," I said, accepting the orange juice and taking a small sip. I suddenly remembered that I'd barely eaten anything at dinner, which made sense. The tension hanging over the table certainly hadn't aided my appetite. It still hadn't returned, though.

"So, who died?" Firkle asked me, plucking up one of the Twinkies from Katie's pack. He took a big bite, the cream filling jutting out the other end, making me faintly nauseous.

"Hey, come on," Pete interjected, giving him a look. "You don't need to be so nosy and blunt, man."

"It's fine." I set the tumbler down and shrugged lightly. "My ex was killed by his husband, if you really want to know."

Katie's eyes widened, new interest showing up in them that hardly surprised me. She took a delicate bite of Twinkie, seemingly waiting for me to go on. When I didn't, she cocked her head to the side.

"And? You aren't just going to stop there, are you? Like, how did he off him?"

I cringed at her choice of words, secretly glad that I wasn't feeling overly sentimental towards Craig's part in this turn of events. After all, he'd most likely gotten exactly what he'd had coming to him.

"Well, I don't know all of the details because I don't really want to know them, but," I cleared my throat, uncomfortable that I was suddenly the center of attention. "He was hit over the head with a wine bottle."

"Wow, blunt force trauma," Firkle said, nearly sighing. "I bet he bled out."

"We should put that in the next issue, liebchen," Katie said, leaning her head on Firkle's shoulder. "What do you think?"

"I can see it now," he replied, holding his hands up and staring through them. "It needs to be a night scene -"

"With moonlight, but plenty of negative space," she added.

"Exactly, and towards the end he can be sitting in a blood pool -"

"Naked. Possibly post-coitus -"

"Okay, you need to stop. Now. You're being morbid," Pete said, picking up his orange juice and taking a hold of my hand. "God, I hate when you guys are just easing into your fucking Adderall high. You're so annoying."

"You don't think it's annoying when I'm working on your tiger," Katie said, pointing toward the large painting. "It's looking good, huh?"

"Yeah, it's great. Now, if you'll excuse us, Tweek and I need to go talk," Pete said, pulling me toward the hallway. "And keep that shit down, please."

"What, you don't want to hear this?" Firkle asked, picking up a remote and hitting a button. Suddenly, the room was flooded with the sounds of a terrified, Japanese girl.

"Itai!" The girl shrieked, her body held aloft in an impossible pose as the tentacles slithered around her arms and legs. I could barely believe what I was seeing.

"Jesus," Pete said, opening a door and ushering me inside. He followed suit and shut out the noise, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling before settling on me again. He shrugged, a sheepish look overtaking his face. "Sorry about that. They're kind of weird." He snapped on the light, illuminating what was clearly his bedroom.

"How is that research?" I asked, pointing toward the door. The sounds of the girl shrieking could still be heard, but then they dissolved into faint moans, only confusing me further.

"They draw graphic novels together," Pete explained, unbuttoning his shirt. "Well, Firkle does most of the artwork, although Katie helps with outlining and whatever. She's a whiz at Photoshop. The stories are a joint effort, and most, actually, all of them have...certain elements." He nodded toward the door, the moans becoming louder now. "If you catch my drift."

"Gotcha," I said, shaking my head a little. I looked around the room, taking it in. "I like your room."

"Thanks," Pete smiled, slipping his shoes off and kicking them aside. He looked around as well, almost like he was seeing the room with new eyes. "I was afraid you'd think it was too juvenile or something."

"Are you really that concerned about what I think?" I asked, feeling flattered but also perturbed. I wasn't used to anyone really valuing my opinion that much. Usually, I was too nervous to really give it for fear of potential backlash.

"Well, sure," Pete shrugged, sitting down on his bed and gazing at me, his shirt open and revealing a white undershirt. His bedspread was an understated shade of maroon, its simplicity clashing with the riot that made up the rest of his room. His walls were covered in band and anime posters, and there were numerous bookshelves stocked with comics, DVD's, action figures, and a million other odds and ends. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because we barely know each other," I commented, walking around and taking in his belongings. The air smelled like incense, dragon's blood specifically, which gave it a warm vibe, and I began to relax slightly. "God, I haven't been in another guy's bedroom in so long."

"Are you nervous?" He asked, watching me with a small smile. This question only served to make the relaxation I was beginning to feel start to fade away. I frowned.

"Well, I am now," I said, crossing my arms. "Thanks for that."

He laughed and lay back on his bed, putting his arms behind his head.

"It's okay, man. I'm not going to try anything." He paused a moment, tapping his chin. "Unless you want me to, of course."

"Knock it off," I said, coming over and primly sitting on the corner of the bed, my legs pressed tightly together. "I'm not ready for anything to happen, okay?"

He nudged my back with his foot softly, making me arch slightly.

"But you want to go on a road trip with me?" He asked, clearly amused. "How does that work exactly?"

Groaning, I covered my face with my hand, the other still clutching the tumbler of orange juice.

"I already told you I jumped the gun, okay? Wine really fucks with my head, and besides, it's been a stressful night."

Silence fell for a moment, and then I could hear a rustle behind me. Turning, I drew my hand away to see him looking at me, his dark eyes thoughtful and soft. My gaze fell on his lip piercing and not for the first time our good night kiss from before passed through my mind, how scratchy the metal had felt against my skin. Dropping my focus, I looked into my tumbler of juice, afraid that he could read my thoughts.

"What happened?" He asked, quietly. "Tonight, I mean. You can tell me about it, you know."

"Are you sure?" I continued to study the pulp in the orange juice. "I wouldn't be bothering you?"

"Here," he replied, reaching out and taking the glass from me; he set it aside. "Why don't you take off your coat and shoes and get comfortable? Would that help?"

I flushed, stealing a glance at his bed, which had turned out to be pretty soft and cozy; large, too. I considered his question, still feeling unsure and so, so nervous. It was almost like I was a teenager again and I had no idea what to do with my hands; my body awkward and not cooperating with my mind. Taking a deep breath, I slowly began to slip off my shoes; when they were gone, I reached up and took a hold of the zipper of my jacket.

"God, you must think I'm so fucking weird," I said, beginning to pull it down. "Like, here's this guy that asked you to hang out in a cemetery, go on a road trip, and now he's practically having a heart attack because we're in your room and you told me I can take my coat off."

"I think it's cute," Pete remarked, laying back after removing his shirt. Now he was just in his undershirt and slacks, and I could see that one of his arms was elaborately tattooed; a full sleeve saturating his pale skin. I also noticed that even though he was thin, he was pretty toned. This knowledge only served to make me more nervous, even though he was being so fucking sweet about my awkwardness. He poked me with his foot again. "I mean it."

"Well, that's good to know," I muttered, having finally unzipped my coat all the way. I slowly slid it off and went about carefully laying it over a chair, all of my movements deliberate because of my nerves. I kept my back to Pete as I shifted on the bed until finally, finally I was lying beside him, though I was perched on the edge as far as I could go. Looking over, I saw that he had rolled onto his side and was still watching me with amusement, his face cradled in his hand.

"Better?" He asked, raising his eyebrows.

I nodded, biting my lip, my hands clasped across my stomach. In this position, it felt like Pete was a million miles away, but there wasn't just physical space between us. No, what made up the middle of the bed was so much more than air and molecules, but how could I ever make him understand? The weight of my past and so many wasted, tense years rested on my tongue and mind, words unspoken, and I wasn't even sure where to start.

"So," I said before clearing my throat. "About tonight."

"Yeah?"

"I met with Craig's parents. Oh, and his sister."

"And how did that go?"

"Well, they were happy to see me for whatever reason, but they're just so clueless when it comes to who their son was." I covered my face with my hands, already feeling overwhelmed. I took a deep breath, trying to collect myself. "Sorry, this is really hard. I almost never talk about this stuff with anyone."

"May I ask why that is? Or is that too personal?"

Taking my hands away, I looked into Pete's face, relieved to see what I considered honest concern instead of morbid curiosity.

"Craig wasn't a nice person," I said, quietly. "In fact, he was a very cruel person. Abusive."

"And his parents can't accept that, I assume."

"Can you blame them?" I asked, turning on my side and curling a hand in front of my face. "I mean, I know I can't, even though it makes me so angry, too. Like, I can understand where they're coming from, but I don't feel like they've ever made any attempt to understand where I might be coming from...or Kyle, for that matter."

"How long was Kyle married to Craig?"

"Almost six years, and from what I understand, Craig was abusive almost the entire time." Slowly, I slid a hand into my pocket and withdrew the diary and set it between us, the lamplight gleaming on its surface. I tapped it softly. "That's the diary he kept while he was with Craig. He said I can read it but I just can't bring myself to do it."

Pete gazed at the diary, a small frown tugging his lips, his eyes narrowing slightly. He glanced up at me.

"I'm thinking you aren't ready because you haven't dealt with your own past yet. What do you think?"

"That's entirely possible," I conceded, nodding slowly. "In fact, that makes perfect sense."

"Well, I'm totally willing to listen whenever you want to talk," he said. "I won't even ask a bunch of questions. I'll just be a sounding board."

I considered this for a moment as I sank a little deeper into the mattress, the warm scent of incense enveloping me. For whatever reason, I felt like I could trust this moment, this place; Pete. Maybe this impulse would come around to bite me on the ass but I was ready to take a leap of faith, small though it was. Letting out a long, slow breath I started tugging on my bottom lip, trying to acclimate myself to the idea of opening up. Reaching out, I slid the diary closer to myself before opening it and taking out the folded sketch from before. I began to open it up, keeping my eyes averted from Pete's.

"I guess the only way you can understand what's going on now is if I tell you what happened before," I murmured, studying the old drawing with a sudden, raw fondness that almost made me want to cry. A crude likeness of adolescent Craig stared up at me and it was like the years were already beginning to fall away, one by one.

"May I?" Pete asked, reaching out a hand gently.

"Are you always this relentlessly polite?" I grinned, reluctantly handing it over and flushing when our fingers touched. I could see him smile slowly and I knew he'd done that on purpose, that contact, just like before at the coffee shop. My eyes flicked to his tattooed arm and I could see bright koi fish swimming through his skin, orange and yellow; vivid against a background of cerulean water. I waited with baited breath as he examined the drawing, feeling ridiculous and ready for criticism; I'd never been much of an artist.

"Craig," he said, softly. "Now I remember him and that dumb hat he used to wear."

"I thought it was cute," I replied, arching an eyebrow and surprised at myself for becoming defensive. Craig hardly deserved my loyalty at this point. "He was different back then. Mostly, anyway."

"Tell me about it." He lay the drawing on the bed between us and it was almost like Craig's specter was hovering in the air. I gulped.

"Well, okay." I gestured to the sketch. "It all started with that drawing, now that I think about it."

"You drew it?"

I nodded and closed my eyes, trying to remember how everything began, my mind groping backward through cloudy memories that I'd kept at bay for years. I was almost disturbed at how easy it was to fall into the past, and in that moment it was like I could recall every little detail; the events that started everything.

\-------

Every class has the quiet kid, doesn't it? You know who I'm talking about; the kid that hangs back from the crowd, keeps their thoughts to themselves, rarely makes waves. In short, it's the kid that everyone forgets is there until they're forced to remember their existence, and even then the kid is forgettable; part of the scenery, really.

I can say with almost complete certainty that I was _that_ kid growing up; shy, retiring, nervous. I kept to myself whenever I could because I could never find the right thing to say, and trying to find any words at all could be an agonizing endeavor. I learned pretty quickly that silence could be a friend, even if it kept me from making actual connections with the people around me. I could live with that, though, so long as it kept me safe from embarrassment and ridicule.

And then there's the quiet kid in class who's solemn and reserved by choice, not because they're wading through their own neuroses or low self-esteem. They're not afraid of being judged because they're already doing the judging, and they've quickly decided that the people around them aren't worth their time and effort. Those are the sorts of quiet kids that people secretly respect, so when they start to speak people actually listen. In fact, when people like that actually take the time to voice their thoughts those around them wonder why they don't speak up more often; clearly they have something to say, something worth hearing.

Needless to say, I was not that type of quiet kid in school, but Craig was. When he deigned to give his opinion, people responded; they wanted to hear more. When I talked, people either didn't listen or constantly told me I was being too quiet, that they couldn't hear me.

But, once again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's backtrack, okay?

I guess I got pretty decent grades growing up, though I didn't really excel in any particular subject. I tried to do my best so I wouldn't get in trouble, not that my parents were really strict disciplinarians. Hell, they just didn't want me to flunk, so bringing home a myriad of B's, C's, and the occasional A was okay with them, so long as I put forth my best effort. I got the impression that they figured out pretty early on that I wasn't really anything special, so they didn't push me too hard. I could remember being vaguely hurt when I started figuring out their opinion of me, but I kept it to myself. It wasn't their fault they had a mediocre son, right?

As such, I started taking a special interest in the overachievers around me pretty early on in life. They stuck out like sore thumbs so it wasn't hard to figure out who they were; they fairly shone, and while I admired them I couldn't help but develop a certain amount of envy, too. I think every person wants to be considered special at least once in their lives, and I was no exception, even though I couldn't articulate it so early in life; it was still a feeling I carried inside of me. I still do, I suppose.

One class I had always secretly enjoyed a little more than the others was art, even though I was horrible at it. I found it soothing, calming; quiet. You didn't have to memorize a million confusing formulas or regurgitate dates, it wasn't cut and dry like math, and even though it was open to interpretation like English can be, you didn't have to wade through words to find a story's hidden meaning. Art could have any meaning you wanted, and because of this it represented and offered a certain amount of freedom.

In 7th grade, we had an art teacher that could be considered eccentric, I guess you could say. She was dreamy and really laid-back, but she was also super passionate about teaching. Cartman called her a dirty hippie and I suppose that makes sense in retrospect, but I always really liked her. Her name was Mrs. Southern-Fox but she wanted us to call her by her first name (Kelly) an idea that always struck me as very strange.

"I call all of you by your first names," she'd explained the first day of class. "It's only fair, don't you think?"

I wanted to ask her what being fair had to do with anything. It's not like adults usually cared about things being fair when it came to relating to kids. If anything, I'd heard over and over throughout my childhood that 'life wasn't fair' and to just deal with it. Her mentality was contrary to everything I'd ever been taught, and I found it intriguing almost immediately.

"So, this is how I'd like everything to start," Kelly chirped, rubbing her hands together. "I want you guys to do self portraits, but -" she smiled, almost appearing mischievous. "We aren't going to use mirrors or photos or anything like that. I just want you to draw yourselves from memory. I think it'll provide a lot of insight into how you all perceive yourselves." 

She looked around the room, her smile widening; hazel eyes excited.

"What do you think?"

Cartman raised his hand but started to speak before he was called on, naturally.

"I think this is a bunch of bullshit, Kelly."

We all sucked in our breath and waited, knowing that what was about to unfold would ultimately set the tone for the year. Cartman loved giving new teachers a hard time, and many had lost their tempers over less.

"Well, that's your opinion, sunshine," she replied, not skipping a beat. She narrowed her eyes and tapped her chin. "If it's all the same, I think I forgot your name. You are -"

"We just call him fat ass," Kyle piped up, making the class erupt into laughter. Kelly just stared at him, some of the mirth evaporating from her face until the room settled into an uncomfortable silence.

"Respect," she said, giving him a pointed look. "A community can't operate without respect, you feel me?"

Kyle blushed slightly and nodded, clearly chastised. She wasn't unkind about the rebuke, but it was obvious she didn't want to hear any arguments.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, glancing at Stan out of the corner of his eye. Stan just rolled his eyes.

"His name is Eric," a nasally voice spoke up, cutting the tension. Glancing back, I saw that Craig was watching Kyle as well, his face impassive. His eyes flickered to Kelly.

"Well, thank you," Kelly said, smiling. She picked up the seating chart, but before she could speak he'd already continued.

"It's Craig," he supplied.

She nodded, appearing pleased. Looking around the room, she clapped her hands again.

"Let's get to it," she announced. "You can use whatever materials you feel comfortable with and the only rule is that you can't use any outside help. You have to go by memory alone." She paused, ruminating for a moment. "And you can all sit anywhere you want, so long as we're respectful of each other and keep the noise to an acceptable level. Is that fair?"

The class quickly agreed, although I just stared down at my desk. Everyone else was clearly excited about getting to sit next to their friends but I couldn't share in their enthusiasm. Picking up my pencil, I started tapping the cover of my sketchbook nervously.

"What are you going to do?" Cartman asked, already hefting himself to his feet and giving Kelly a suspicious look.

"I'll observe," she smiled, standing and going around her desk; plopping into her chair. "Don't mind me."

\------

Kelly gave us a few days to work on our self portraits, each art period devoted entirely to the process. While the more confident kids in class dove right in I found myself struggling, suddenly unable to conjure up my own face in my mind's eye. I kept erasing everything I drew until my paper was a rumpled mess, and I went through more pages than I'd care to admit. As time wore on, I started feeling uneasy because everyone else seemed so far ahead. Even Cartman had finished with his face and was starting on his shoulders, which were decidedly muscular and not at all accurate but at least he was almost done. Meanwhile, I'd sketched out my face shape (skinny with a pointed chin) and that was it. I just wasn't sure how to continue, almost like my own likeness was a mystery to me.

By the end of the week, Kelly called for our attention and I hastily turned my paper over, ashamed at how far behind I was.

"Okay, so," she said, leaning on her desk, her arms crossed. "How is everyone doing so far, huh?"

She glanced around the room expectantly and as usual, Cartman's hand went straight up; at least he waited to be called on this time.

"I still think this whole thing is a waste of time but check this shit out," he said, holding up his drawing for the class to see. Everyone collectively rolled their eyes to see a not at all reasonable likeness of Cartman, his jaw chiseled with firm lips and a cleft in his chin. It kind of looked like David Hasselhoff.

"Dial back the casual swearing, if you please," Kelly said, wryly, studying the drawing. She smiled after a moment. "Very nice, Eric. Your version of yourself is just lovely, very confident." She looked at the class, eyebrows raised. "Do you have any feedback for your classmate, constructive or otherwise?"

"That doesn't look anything like you," Kyle spoke up immediately. "At least be honest with yourself, dude."

"Oh, do you feel you've been honest in your drawing, Kyle?" Kelly asked.

Kyle nodded and shrugged, holding up his own sketch. I had to admit that it was actually pretty good, but Kyle seemed to be one of those kids that excelled at almost everything they tried; one of the classic overachievers I'd observed over the years.

"Naw, dude, your hair's way curlier than that," Kenny spoke up, reaching out and grabbing one of Kyle's curls; he pulled on it gently. Kyle yelped, quickly moving away while blushing furiously, though he didn't look annoyed, just surprised.

"Knock it off, Kenny," he replied, glancing quickly at Stan, who just laughed. He reached out and grabbed one of Kyle's curls too, straightening it out before letting it go.

"Sproing," he said, making Kyle blush an even deeper red.

"God, can you guys stop fucking around for like two seconds?" Craig said, crossing his arms and giving the three of them a hard look. "Especially you, McCormick; Jesus Christ."

"Cram it, Tucker," Kenny replied, flipping Craig the bird, who returned it without hesitation. "Why are you always getting on my ass, anyway?"

Craig just gave him a deadpan look, one eyebrow raised.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Okay, that's enough," Kelly said, clapping her hands again. She gave Craig and Kenny a stern look. "Watch the language, and," she zeroed in on Kenny, "the hand gestures. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Kenny muttered, but Craig just continued to stare at her, his expression unchanging. After a moment, she glanced around the room, her eyes falling on me. Immediately, I began to shake, and I knew it wasn't because I'd had a triple shot of espresso before coming to school.

"Tweek," she smiled, warmly. "You're always so quiet, hon. Would you like to tell us how your portrait is going?"

My mouth went dry as I tried to formulate a response, the trembles coursing through my body and reaching my hands. Desperately, I clutched at my desk to steady myself.

"I, uh, I -" I bit my lip, looking down at my upside down drawing, feeling the weight of so many eyes resting on me; my heart beginning to beat uncomfortably fast.

"Would you like to show us what you have so far?" She continued, her voice unbearably gentle, like she was trying to sooth a skittish horse.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath I was finally able to shake my head, my eyes shut tight. I knew I looked ridiculous but I couldn't help it; I hated being the center of attention.

"That's okay, sweetie," she said, and the kindness in her voice made me take pause. I looked up to see her still smiling at me before she swept her gaze around the room. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to keep your work to yourselves," she added. "Art and self expression can be an intensely personal experience, and the process is different for everyone; that's perfectly okay."

I was beginning to feel better when I heard someone clear their throat loudly, and then the word "freak" was muttered; the class burst into laughter. I shrank in my seat, my cheeks burning hotly.

For the first time, Kelly seemed legitimately angry, her eyes blazing as she stood silently at the front of the room, just staring at us with a hard expression on her face. She didn't speak a word, and after a while the tension began to rise until the laughter died down little by little; the room suddenly draped in a heavy silence.

"Kindness," she said, softly. "I can't stress just how important it is. Compassion, too." She turned to me, her eyes full of softness. "I'm sorry on behalf of your classmates, Tweek. They seem to enjoy shaming themselves."

I couldn't reply, opting instead to stare down at my desk again. More than ever, I just wanted to be far, far away from that room and everyone in it.

"Now," she continued, going around her desk and taking a seat, long, brown hair draping over her shoulders in shimmery waves. "I'll give you guys the class period to finish up your drawings, and then I want you to turn them in, regardless of whether or not they're finished."

"Why would you want us to turn in unfinished assignments?" Wendy asked, sounding scandalized. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Because I'm not asking for perfection here," Kelly replied, smoothly. "I'm just looking for honesty. Does that make sense?"

I noticed my classmates looking around at each other, puzzled expressions on their faces. I just bit my lip and clutched at my paper, secretly relieved that I wouldn't be penalized for not being done, but also feeling ashamed all the same, though I couldn't understand why. 

\------

"So, I've had a chance to look at your self portraits, and I must say, I was very impressed," Kelly said the following week, giving the class her biggest, brightest smile. "They were very informative, so I feel like the next part of our little project is ready to begin."

"Next part?" Cartman asked, slumping on his desk. "Are you telling me this hippie crap isn't done yet?"

"I'm going to divide you all into pairs and you're going to draw each other," Kelly went on, openly ignoring Cartman. If anything, she seemed too excited about her idea to pay him any mind. "And just like your self portraits, I want to see honest displays, and," she stressed her next words, eyes wide, "kindness. I want you to be kind to each other."

"Do we get to pick our partners?" Kenny asked, not so covertly glancing at Kyle, who didn't seem to notice.

"No, I chose the pairs very carefully, based on my observations and your self portraits," Kelly replied, eliciting a loud groan from everyone. I stayed quiet, turning to look out the window. I hated group assignments, mainly because no one ever wanted to be my partner. Oh, well, at least she'd spared me the pain of trying to find someone to work with on my own.

"Okay, once I announce who you're working with I want you to move and sit with your partner," she chirped, holding up a piece of paper. Methodically, she began going down the list, some people appearing very pleased with her choices while others were clearly outraged.

"What do you mean I have to work with Cartman?!" Kyle screeched, sitting up in his seat like he'd just been shocked with a cattle prod. "There's no way I can work with him!"

"I think it would be good for you two," Kelly explained, giving him a passive look. "You might learn something from one another."

"What the hell could I possibly learn from him?!" Cartman yelled, pointing a stubby finger in Kyle's direction. "He's a goddamn pagan!"

"Jews are hardly pagans, fat ass!" Kyle seethed, turning to him sharply.

"You've rejected Christ, which basically makes you a pagan," Cartman retorted snidely. "Jesus saves, Jew."

"Yeah, but Moses invests!" Kyle yelled. "How do you like that, you dirty fucking -"

"And this is exactly why you two need to learn to work together," Kelly interrupted easily, calling everyone's focus back to her. She continued down the list while Cartman and Kyle fumed. "Now, Tweek," she smiled at me. I tensed up, waiting. "You'll work with Mr. Tucker."

Flushing, I glanced over my shoulder to see Craig staring at me, his grey eyes almost looking through me. I looked back at her, sweat already gathering on my forehead. I wanted to protest because Craig had always kind of intimidated me, but I couldn't find the words, nor the courage to use them even if they'd been available.

"Go on," she said, gesturing towards the back of the room. "You can move your seat now, hon."

"That's okay," Craig's bored voice broke in. "I can move, it isn't a big deal."

Before I could respond, Craig was sitting next to me, his long, lanky limbs perilously close. He gave off a clean scent, of soap and something else I couldn't place; an earthy aroma. He gave me a frown, his eyes sharpening.

"Relax, you weren't my first choice either."

\------

"Do you ever stop moving?"

I looked up from where my eyes had been trained on the floor for most of the period to see Craig watching me, his mouth set in a frown. His slender fingers held the pencil loosely in his hand as it balanced above his sketchbook, becoming idle as he stared at me, not making any attempt to mask his annoyance.

"I-I'm trying to," I replied, softly, which was the truth. He'd been chastising me for my spastic, uncontrollable movements since he'd come to sit beside me, which only served to make me more nervous, thus making me more fidgety. "I'm sorry, it's just -"

"It's all that coffee you drink," he muttered, going back to his drawing. "You realize that, right?"

I raised an eyebrow, disturbed by his judgement but also surprised that he'd even noticed anything about me. We'd never been close. If anything, he treated me like I was part of the scenery, much like everyone else. Faint annoyance coursed through me, too. Who was he to make snap comments like that, anyway?

He smirked suddenly, taking me off guard.

"Do you have something to say?"

His directness made me feel shy, so I shook my head, backing down. I gestured to his sketchpad instead.

"Can I see?"

He glanced between me and his drawing for a moment, clearly debating before he shrugged, setting it down between us. I picked it up, my mouth dropping open.

"You're so quick," I commented, studying it. He'd already sketched out the shape of my face and my eyes, vague shadows filling in the space where my nose was going to be. His drawing wasn't as skilled as Kyle's but it was far better than my attempts, meticulous and very focused on exact details. I glanced up at him, a smile tugging at my lips suddenly.

"I like it."

His eyes narrowed, almost like he was suspicious, like he thought I was trying to butter him up. After a moment, he took the sketchbook back and looked down at the drawing too, his posture relaxing just a fraction.

"It'd be better if you'd stop moving," he said, but he smiled, and I noticed for the first time just how pale he was, the blue of his chullo hat in stark contrast with his skin color.

"Are you going to take it off?" I asked, gesturing to his head. "When I draw you?"

He chewed on the end of his pencil, white teeth flashing as the early morning sunlight peered through the classroom window.

"Do you want me to?"

I don't know why, but I flushed when he asked me that, almost like he was challenging me, or teasing me; I couldn't tell. Suddenly, I looked down at my hands and I could feel myself shaking again, involuntary trembles breaking through me.

"I'm fine either way," I replied, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind my ear. "Whatever you want to do, honestly."

\-------

"You know, you can come in. You don't have to stand in the doorway."

Clutching my sketchpad to my chest, I passed the threshold into Craig's room while holding my breath, not knowing what to expect but having a vague idea either way. His room was simple and clean, almost devoid of personal touches aside from some books strewn about and a small cage sitting on his desk. He was sitting in front of the window and I could see that the sun was descending toward the horizon, late afternoon ushering in soft breezes that blew back the curtain. The light fell over him, and I could see that his hat was thrown over the end of the bed, his black hair rich and threaded with faint blueish highlights.

He'd been reading when I came in but he set the book down carefully on his nightstand, and I was starting to notice that his movements were always measured and precise. He didn't seem to do anything haphazardly or without some forethought, which seemed to reflect in the way he carried himself. His words were the same way, always delivered after pensive deliberation, almost like he only had so few to spare, so he'd better be careful with them.

"Do you think you'll actually finish today?" He asked, his gaze flickering to my sketchbook, making me flush.

"I know I'm slow," I said, drawing closer and looking around for a place to sit where I wouldn't be in the way. "I just want to get it right, you know?"

"We have to turn them in by the end of the week," he replied, standing and going over to the cage, studying its contents for a moment. He sighed before turning away to the closet, he opened it and began to root around inside. Plucking out a shoe box, he set it on the desk before turning back to me, his eyebrows raised.

"I never would've pegged you as a perfectionist," he commented, opening the cage door and reaching inside. My eyes widened as he pulled out a lifeless ball of brown fur.

"W-what are you doing?" I asked, setting my sketchbook aside and hurrying over. "What's wrong with Stripe?"

This wasn't the first time I'd come over since we'd started the project. In fact, after Kelly had given us our deadline I'd dropped by Craig's place almost everyday after school so that we could work on our sketches because art class just didn't seem to afford us enough time. Well, enough time for me to finish my drawing, at any rate. Craig had proven to be efficient and quick and had already finished his sketch of me, and I had to admit it that it was good, albeit in a very direct, spare way. It lacked a lot of excessive detail, but what he'd included seemed necessary, if that makes any sense at all.

The afternoons we'd spent together had been tense at first, but over time they had smoothed out into what could almost be considered a careful camaraderie. We were both quiet in our own ways, so we didn't make a lot of demands of one another, and even though I still found him very intimidating and abrupt, he didn't criticize me nearly as much as he had at the beginning, though he still seemed to regard me with a casual indifference, like he'd already figured me out and hadn't found me to be very interesting. The one soft spot I'd noticed in his personality had been for his guinea pig, Stripe, which he doted on in a way that seemed to be very contrary to his character. He'd allowed me to hold him once or twice, but mostly he wanted to let the creature be.

"He isn't doing very well these days," he'd explained upon my first visit, after taking the delicate bundle from me and securing him back in his cage. I could understand what he meant at the time, having noticed that the animal seemed to be laboring to breathe, the air rasping through its stubby snout. 

"Is he going to be okay?" I'd asked, worrying my hands and watching as Stripe curled himself into a tight ball in the corner of his cage, his sides flicking in and out rapidly.

"He's old," Craig had replied, glancing at the animal with what could almost be considered tenderness; I couldn't believe it. "I've had him for a few years already, so it makes sense. You know?"

I had only nodded my head after he asked me that because, really, I didn't understand. I'd never had a pet so I'd never had to deal with its inevitable death, nor had I really experienced the death of a family member or loved one. He was so matter of face about it, though, which struck me as being mature but it made him seem so cold, too. Most of the time, Craig Tucker just seemed to operate on a different plane from me, like he was years older and I couldn't even dream of catching up to him; like he had everything figured out already.

Now he regarded me with the same cold, matter of fact finality as he scooped Stripe's body into the shoe box.

"He died right before you got here," he said, placing the lid on top of the box. "It's for the best, I think. He was suffering."

"What are you going to do with him?" I asked, horrified. I could already feel my bottom lip beginning to tremble as I contemplated Stripe's corpse in the dark box, probably already stiffening up with rigor mortis.

Craig shrugged before glancing at the box, his face passive.

"I'll probably just put him in the garbage, honestly." He glanced at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

Now the tears were burning in my eyes, hardly able to comprehend such methodical callousness. I rushed over to the box and picked it up, holding it to my chest.

"You need to bury him," I practically whispered. "You can't just throw him out like he's worthless. It isn't right."

He studied me for a moment before he finally smirked, cocking his head to the side.

"You want to have a funeral for my guinea pig? Am I right?"

Nodding, I angrily scrubbed at my face after a tear finally fell down my cheek. He was being so indifferent and I couldn't believe it. I knew in my heart that he cared more than he wanted to let on, but I wasn't sure how to get him to admit it.

"Won't you miss him?" I asked. "At least a little?"

"Sure," he shrugged again, his hands sliding into his pockets. "But what's the point of getting upset about it? Life goes on, right?"

"Not for him," I snapped, giving him a fierce look.

Rolling his eyes, Craig finally stopped smirking, his mouth dissolving into an actual smile; it nearly reached his eyes.

"Fine," he said. "We'll bury him, okay? Let me get a shovel...I'll even let you pick the spot. What do you think?"

"I know the perfect place," I replied, clutching the box tighter against my chest.

\------

The sunlight glazed Craig's hair with an orange brilliance as I sat behind him on his bike, his legs pumping as he carried us to Stark's Pond. I had Stripe's box in my hands, now adorned with a pretty green ribbon that Craig's little sister had given me after seeing how upset I was. I'd never been this close to Craig before in my life, and I couldn't help blushing when I caught wind of his scent in the evening air, the aromas of clean sweat and laundry detergent floating under my nose. For all of his cold aloofness, he gave off waves of heat and I studied the back of his neck, his soft, black hair settled against his nape. I'd tried to tell him that I was totally fine with walking to the pond but he'd insisted that we take his bike, mainly because nightfall was so close.

Before leaving, Craig had grabbed a little trowel to dig the grave with, and after arriving at the pond and settling his bike against a tree, he'd glanced at me.

"Where do you want to bury him?"

"There," I pointed, indicating a spot near to the water that was nestled among green grass and a scattering of wildflowers. "Isn't it nice?"

"If you say so." Kneeling down, he began to dig, his movements as sure and precise as they'd been when sketching my portrait. I watched him work, the soft winds rustling my hair and the trees, tiny whispers running through the forest and breaking the stillness of the pond water. Stray scattering of stars were beginning to break through the darkening sky, vivid and almost surreal as I watched Stripe's grave become larger and larger.

"How old were you when you realized you're gonna die someday?" I suddenly asked, walking to the water's edge. "Like, when did it really sink in?"

Craig was silent for a moment as he continued digging, the black earth turning over and appearing moist and rich.

"I was eight," he replied. "I was staying at my grandma's house because my parents were out of town, and I was sleeping in her bed." He paused for a moment, thinking. "She was wearing this nightgown with penguins all over it, and I just remember my eyes popping open when it hit me, and they were the first things I saw. It was really weird."

"What did you do?"

Sitting up, he swiped a hand across his forehead.

"I got up and went to the bathroom," he said, simply. "I turned on all the lights and just sat there for a while until I felt like it was something I could deal with. Why, when did you accept it all?"

"Who says I have?" I replied, crouching down, my shoes sinking into the soft mud of the bank; Stripe's box clenched in my hands.

"You know, you're a lot more childish than I would've thought," he commented, standing up and brushing off his hands. I glared at him but he didn't seem to pay it any mind, his face remaining blank. "I think the hole is big enough, by the way. Come and see."

Standing, I timidly approached Craig's side, my eyes sliding down into the darkness and making me catch my breath. The whole affair just seemed so cruel, so final, and I couldn't imagine actually placing Stripe's body in the unforgiving ground, not while the sun was still falling and the stars were coming to life above us. The world seemed so chaotic in that moment, like absolutely nothing made sense, but Craig seemed so at ease with it all; accepting.

"You do it," I choked, pressing the box into his hands. "Please."

Tapping the lid with the trowel, Craig gave me a look before leaning down, his lanky body folding easily as he studied the hole as well. He became still, the winds passing through and lifting his hair, the blue highlights showing through the black like quicksilver. I was starting to notice more and more small details about him, the way he moved, the way he seemed to approach even the macabre with a resigned simplicity. Slowly, he placed the box in the ground, his hands lingering for a moment before he pulled away, and then he was looking up at me. The shadows were stretching further as the sun disappeared, and their purple softness settled under his cheekbones, making his face appear more angular.

"Did you want to say a prayer or something?" He asked, wryly; one brow quirked. I couldn't decide if he was trying to tease me but I didn't care either way. Taking a deep breath, I groped for something to say, but I couldn't find the words, just like always. Instead, I began to cover the grave with the turned dirt, pushing it over the box with my hands, sniffling the whole time.

"I've been thinking," Craig suddenly spoke up, "about what you remind me of, and I think I've finally figured it out."

"Hmm?" I asked, packing the earth over the covered hole. I waited for him to insult me about how I fidgeted or how hopelessly sentimental I was, even about my obvious immaturity.

"Once I saw this crow with a broken wing," he went on, looking out toward the horizon as the sun finally fell completely behind the mountains. The stars were out in droves now, salting the sky as purple and navy threaded through the gathering darkness. They gave off an almost greenish cast, the stars, as they began to glow in earnest. "It was in the middle of this busy road, and it kept trying to fly while avoiding the cars, but it just couldn't make it off the ground. I've never forgotten it."

"Are you saying I remind you of an immobilized bird?" I asked, standing and staring at him. I never in a million years could've imagined Craig Tucker saying something like that to me, and I couldn't decide if I should be insulted or intrigued.

"You just seem so helpless a lot of the time," he shrugged, turning to me. "Like, if you were in the bird's position you wouldn't be pissed off that the cars might hit you; instead, you'd be apologizing for being in their way."

Carefully, I placed a yellow wildflower on Stripe's grave as I tried to piece together what I was hearing. Vaguely, I was aware that my feelings were hurt even though I knew what he said held a tremendous amount of truth. Silence stretched over us as nightfall became complete, and I realized in that moment that I hadn't worked on my sketch at all the whole time we'd been together.

"Did you want to stay for dinner?" Craig suddenly asked, nudging my back with his knee as I continued to kneel beside the grave. "It's getting kind of late."

Standing, I glanced at him, surprised. He'd never extended this sort of offer to me in the past, usually announcing that it was time for me to leave as soon as dinnertime rolled around. Blushing suddenly, inexplicably, I nodded wordlessly.

"Come on," he said, tugging at my arm and pulling me toward his bike. "Let's get going before my mom goes postal on me. Are you ready?"

"I guess," I murmured, allowing him to taking a hold of me with strong fingers, feeling a sudden, strange warmth from the unexpected contact. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I minded," he replied, flippantly. He straddled his bike after letting go of me, waiting. "Besides, you still need to finish drawing me, right?"

"Yeah." Lifting my leg over the bike, I stumbled slightly and grabbed onto him before I could stop myself, my face flaming from embarrassment.

"Clumsy," he laughed, settling his hands on the handlebars.

"Sorry," I said, righting myself and taking my place behind him. For a moment, I had the crazy impulsive desire to lean my cheek against his back, just to test how warm he was.

"Don't be," he replied, leaning forward and beginning to peddle. "It's cute. Hold on."

Taken aback, I reached up and took a hold of his shirt lightly, crumpling the fabric in my hands. Pretty soon we were flying away from the pond, leaving Stripe behind beneath the fragrant grasses, the stars fanning out above us and stretching away into eternity; green-white lights glowing worlds and worlds away.


End file.
